


Playing Favorites

by MintAqua



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Cursing, Gen, M/M, Post-Season 12, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintAqua/pseuds/MintAqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tucker and Caboose are too good at being soldiers, and it's cramping their style. Okay, mostly just Tucker's style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lesson One

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing down Tuckington headcanon lane by jumping straight to the Chorus trilogy. This one's set between seasons 12 and 13. It's looking like it will end up being about 2 to 3 chapters, but we'll see. I'm gonna try to cram all of it in before winter break ends, so a lot of it will be unedited and/or sloppy. This one MIGHT not actually end with pre-slash, but again, we'll see.

Tucker finds Wash in the training room, which is typical. He’s in the middle of shouting something generic at some rebel lieutenants, while said rebels shrink back in terror. Or he could just be talking normally; it’s kind of hard to tell the difference when he’s dealing with Palomo’s crowd. All things considered, Tucker should really take this opportunity to back away slowly and try again another day, but he has just about reached his boiling point and it’s not like the giant stick up Wash’s ass has ever stopped him before.

“Yo, Wash, we need to t--Jesus!” And now Tucker’s flat on the floor, somebody’s squeezing the life out of his wrist, he’s banged his head, and his back kinda hurts. “What the hell!”

“Good afternoon, Captain Tucker. Thanks for volunteering,” Wash says smoothly.

Tucker sits up and tries to rub his head through his helmet. It’s not very effective. “Volunteering for what?”

“Well, seeing as how I am clearly in the middle of training, I can only assume that you’re here to help me demonstrate some self-defense.” Washington releases his wrist and crosses his arms. “You wouldn’t just barge in here to interrupt me for something irrelevant, would you, Captain?”

Tucker looks between Wash and the lieutenants. He rolls his eyes. Of course Wash is trying to look cool in front of the kiddies. “Uh, yeah I would. And this isn’t irrelevant.”

“Is someone dying or in danger of dying? Is the base on fire? Did Caboose make another mechanical friend? Is the sky falling?”

“Ugh, no, but--”

“Then it’ll have to wait. Now are you going to help me or not?”

Tucker groans. “Fine, whatever. Prick.” He gets up, wincing with some exaggeration in the off chance that Wash might take pity on him. No such luck. “So what do you want me to do?”

Washington assumes a fighting stance, which prompts Tucker to do the same. “All I need you to do is try to attack me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What makes you so sure you can block all my attacks?” Tucker asks as they begin to circle each other. He can feel the lieutenants’ eyes on him and tenses up a bit--something Wash surely notices. Getting beat up by Wash is one thing; getting beat up in front of his own troops is another entirely.

“Years of special ops training. And, you know, seeing your performance in battle firsthand,” Wash replies.

“Yeah, well, let’s get this over with.” Tucker cracks his knuckles and braces himself. Wash is probably going to kick his ass, but he will not be going down without a fight.

Tucker starts with a fake out that Wash sees through easily. He catches Tucker’s fist and holds him there. “See that? You can spot a false move by reading the body language. Pulled punches, hesitation, et cetera. It’s okay, Captain Tucker,” Wash says, and Tucker can hear the smirk in his voice, “no need to go easy on me.”

“Man, you know I always go hard,” Tucker manages out, if only to have the last word. “Bow chicka bow wow.”

“Poetic.” Wash releases Tucker’s fist. He dodges the next few attempts fluidly, as if they have rehearsed this several times before. “Letting your enemy tire themselves out is another strategy you can take advantage of if you have the time and reflexes.”

“It’s gonna take a lot more than this to tire me out. Bow chicka bow wow.”

“Do you  _ have _ to do that every single time?”

“That’s what you get for picking me,  _ sir _ .”

Wash knocks one of his punches away, leaving him wide open. Suddenly, Tucker’s instincts kick in and he moves away before Wash can pinpoint a weak spot.

“If you can,” Washington goes on in that annoying teaching voice of his, “parry to lower your enemy’s defenses. On the flip side, if you find yourself feeling vulnerable, you might need to put some distance between you and the en--”

Tucker lunges, but Wash manages to dodge with seemingly little effort. Wash elbows his neck sharply, causing him to collapse onto the floor. “Between you and the enemy. You okay?”

There’s a witty retort somewhere in him, but the only thing he is capable of right now is a wheeze.

“Oh, you’re fine.” Wash picks him back up again. “You don’t want to put all your weight into a surprise attack,” he continues, his words directed at the bystanders but his gaze aimed at Tucker. “If you fail, you leave yourself open to a counterattack.”

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Tucker says in between breaths. “Can’t you give me, like, five minutes now?”

Something in the agent’s stance relaxes a little, the oh-so subtle shift from Agent Washington the Hardass Trainer to Wash the Slightly Less Hardass Blue. “I’m sorry, but if this is about the rash on your back again, I really don’t have the time--”

“ _ Hey _ , hey, hey!” Tucker speaks about as loudly as possible, half shouting over the burst of laughter and mixed noises of disgust from the peanut gallery. “Dammit, Wash, not in front of the troops! Why is it that every time I wanna talk to you, you think it’s about my rash?”

“Because that’s usually what happens when you pull me aside to talk about something private?”

Tucker groans and goes in for another attack. Again, he finds himself in pain on the floor.

“Let’s revisit this another time, guys.” Washington offers a hand to help Tucker up, but Tucker ignores it. “...Right. Lieutenants, go clean up the cones from the shooting range. Remember, I’ll be counting them off before they go into storage this time, so one of you will have to answer to me if I find any of them missing.” The lieutenants salute all at once and head off. Wash watches them go. “I really can’t figure out who keeps stealing our cones. What the hell could you possibly do with rubber cones? With bullet holes in them, no less? Couldn’t they just, you know, ask to borrow them?”

“Gee, Wash, that’s insane. There’s something going on that you don’t know about? And here I thought you knew everything,” Tucker snipes, rolling his shoulders. One of them feels a bit funny.

Washington does something to his right shoulder that immediately relieves it. “Okay, what’s wrong?” he asks with an infuriating amount of patience.

Tucker rubs his shoulder. He kind of wishes Wash wouldn’t take care of him so much; it makes it a lot harder to stay mad. “Everybody hates me, that’s what! And it’s your fault!”

“You’re going to have to be way more specific.”

Tucker draws himself up, the memories refueling his anger. “The Reds think you’re playing favorites during training. You keep giving them more work than me or Caboose, and they think it’s because you’re still partial to the Blue team.”

“What? That’s not... Ah. By ‘they’ I’m assuming you mean mostly Sarge, and Grif and Simmons are just going along with it.”

“Glad you asked, Agent Washington!” Tucker says with all the sarcastic energy he’s been storing for this very occasion. “Nope! This isn’t just another one of Sarge’s episodes. In fact, he doesn’t even give a shit because you excused him from training two weeks ago! It’s just Grif and Simmons who are pissed. Yep, just them. They trip me up during training, use their spoons to catapult beans at me in the cafeteria, and ‘accidentally’ lose my armor in the armory. I had to walk around in green armor the other day. Forest green!”

“Wait, back up. Are they really wasting food rations on this?”

“That’s not even the worst part.” Tucker lowers his voice. “Earlier today, Simmons called me a teacher’s pet.  _ Simmons _ !”

Wash makes a noise. Tucker thinks it might have been a snort, but he’s not actually sure he’s ever heard Wash laugh without it dripping with sarcasm or spite. “How could they think you’re a teacher’s pet? You literally never pass up an opportunity to talk back to me.”

“Well, yeah, but me and Caboose are always done before they are, and we’re always less exhausted than they are, and I don’t think I’m a pet, either, but I gotta say, it does look pretty fuckin’ suspish, man!”

“What, so you think I’m playing favorites, too? Couldn’t it just be that you’re more in shape? Or perhaps that they talk back to me even more than you do?”

Now it’s Tucker’s turn to snort. “Hell no! Are you kidding? Pissing you off and being lazy is, like, fifty percent of what I do around here!”

“Hmm… Hold on a sec.” Wash pulls out his clipboard and flips through the pages. Tucker can’t help but roll his eyes. Washington brings that damn thing everywhere inside the base nowadays; if he weren’t such a badass, Tucker would think he was a total nerd. “See? Look at this. You and Caboose have consistently been the top two each week in endurance, speed, strength, close quarters combat, accuracy… You guys even hold the record for fastest run through the obstacle course. I’m not playing favorites; you guys are just...more advanced than the others, I guess. Congrats.”

A deeply repressed part of Tucker rejoices in the hint of genuine pride in Wash’s voice, but the larger fraction of him has suffered through enough projectile mashed potatoes for a lifetime. He throws up his hands. “How?! I get that Caboose is a fuckin’ tank, but I thought that I was, I don’t know, falling behind or something.”

“I think you’re comparing yourself to Caboose too much. He’s...something special, that’s for sure. So compared to him, yeah, you’re not catching up anytime soon. But compared to the others, you’ve improved a lot faster. To be fair, you and Caboose  _ did _ get a head start on training back at the crash site”--the ‘I told you you’d be grateful for it someday’ part is left unspoken--”but you have definitely by far improved the most since training began. That’s not something you should be ashamed of.”

Tucker groans and hides his face--or, helmet visor--in his hands. “Oh God, it’s true. I’m the pet. I’m the fucking pet!”

“Were you even listening to me? Tucker, you’re not a pet,” Wash says with thinning patience. “Pets actually give a crap about what the teacher thinks. You’re just a good soldier. And, you know, people often get jealous of others with more talent than them. That’s life.”

Tucker looks at him. It’s a bit hard to glare through a smudged visor, but he aims in the general direction of the smug black and yellow blob. “That is exactly what a teacher would say to a pet! Stop favoring me!”

“I’m not favoring you! I’m being sincere!”

“That’s even worse!”

“Oh my God, just take the compliment, you baby.”

“Fuck no! Your praise has made me a social pariah! I want to be one of the cool kids again!”

Wash sighs deeply, so much so that it’s more like a long exhale. “Okay. How about this? As long as you and Caboose make sure you keep in shape on your own time, you may be excused from training. Does that help?”

Tucker stares. He kind of wants to smack himself to make sure he’s awake. Maybe he passed out when Wash flipped him on his back the second time. “Sorry, I think my head’s all messed up from when I banged it on the floor. Did you just say I could be excused from training? Like, forever?”

“Well, ideally you’d be using that time to train on your own or go on assigned missions, and I may call you back on occasions to check up on your progress, but--”

“Wash. Wash. Just say it for me, please.”

“Say...what? You may be excused from training?”

Tucker nods slowly. “Say it again.”

“You...may be excused from training.”

“Again.”

“Okay, this is getting kind of weird.”

Tucker grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Say it again, Wash!”

“Jesus, fine! You may be excused from training.”

“Louder!”

“You may be excused from training!”

“Okay!” Jensen sing-songs from the range. The lieutenants make a break for the exit, only for Wash to yell at them to stop what they’re doing and go run some laps.

Tucker shakes Wash just enough to regain his attention. “One more time, baby!”

“Tucker, just give me an answer before I make you run laps with the lieutenants.”

“So you really mean it?” Tucker can’t help but ask, because this is important, goddammit. “No more laps, no more squats, no more obstacle courses?”

“You’ll still be doing all of that, but on your own time. Were you even listening?” Wash replies with a tone of voice that sounds like he’s already considering taking it back.

Tucker sucks in a deep breath. “But you won’t be hovering over my shoulder every time I do it, right?”

“I won’t, no.” Now Wash is definitely getting annoyed.

This is it. The moment he thought may never come. The moment he had only dreamed of. Tucker hesitates, squeezes Wash’s shoulders again. Exhales. “Let me...think about it.”

“Oh, for--you can’t be serious.”

“Fine, okay, yes. I thought about it. I accept. No take backs.” Tucker releases Wash and pumps his fist, whooping. “Yes! I’m free! I’m finally fucking free!” He does a pelvic thrust. “Suck it!”

“Alright, nice seeing you, Captain Tucker. Please leave before I make you.”

“Suck! It! Woohoo!” Tucker emphasizes each word with another thrust. Wash shoots him in the ass. “Ow! Okay, I’m gone, I’m going!”

With that, Tucker leaves the training room, waving peace signs in the air as the doors swing shut behind him. Not even a face full of mashed potatoes and carrots could bring him down today.

***

“Hey, Wash, wanna make out?”

Everyone looks at Grif. Practice has been going on for about half an hour, now, which usually marks the time when Grif fully wakes up and starts whining, but instead the first thing out of his mouth all morning is this. Washington can’t even remember what he was in the middle of saying, but it surely wasn’t an invitation for... _ that _ .

“I’m sorry, what?” is all he can manage out.

“You heard me. Wanna make out?” Grif says it again, this time cheekier, and now Wash is pretty sure he’s trying to prove a point but he can’t for the life of him figure it out.

“I...no. I’m good. Thanks,” Wash says slowly. Silence. “I’m still waiting for the punchline.”

“Oh, there’s no punchline. I’m dead serious.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“It’s just that I was wondering whose dick I have to suck around here to get the fuck out of training, and apparently that’s you, so.” Grif shrugs his shoulders, mock-innocent. “I thought we’d start out with some kissing, see where it goes from there.”

Washington sighs. He should’ve seen that one coming. “I assume this is about Tucker and Caboose’s recent dismissal from practice.”

“Hell yeah it is. Those sluts were bragging about it all day yesterday!” Grif says, going into full whiner mode. “I could barely understand them with your dick in their mouths the whole time.”

“I hate to say it, sir, but I agree with Grif,” says Simmons. “I could understand dismissing Sarge...sort of...but Tucker? And  _ Caboose _ ? ”

“Tucker and Caboose have proven to be fully capable of disciplining themselves,” Wash says in his usual authoritative voice, but even he has to pause and rethink that sentence. “Okay, I realize how stupid that sounds when I say it out loud, but, come on. What’s the point in having them here if all they do half the time is wait around for you guys to finish?”

Wash instinctively braces himself for the inevitable ‘bow chicka bow wow,’ but it never comes. Right, Tucker’s not here.

“Besides,” he continues when no one comments, “you guys brought this on yourselves. Tucker wouldn’t have come to me to complain if you hadn’t been harassing him and Caboose about their progress.”

“If you think about it, they were the ones harassing us with their progress,” Simmons states as-a-matter-of-factly. “It hurt our self-esteem.”

“Yeah, Wash! Our self-esteem! In fact,” Grif adds, “this whole conversation has been pretty awful for my self-image. I think I should be excused.”

“Aw, guys, don’t feel bad. Come here!” Donut takes them in for a hug.

“Listen,” Wash says before the conversation can devolve any further, “I’ve made my decision. What’s done is done. If you can prove to me that I’ve made the wrong decision, then go ahead. Give me some solid evidence, and I may reconsider. But until then, I don’t want to hear about it. Is that understood?”

“But, sir--!”

“I asked you a question, Captain,” Wash says sternly, daring them to talk back one more time. Simmons and Grif exchange a look.

“Understood, sir,” Simmons replies eventually, whereas Grif answers, “What a load of bull.”

Grif ends up collapsed on the floor after three out of the assigned six laps.

At least breaking him should be easier than Tucker.


	2. Lesson Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tucker screws up, so Wash tries to get psychological and it doesn't quite work out the way he planned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! I really appreciate the feedback. Again, this story is going to come out a little rushed because of time constraints, but I hope it's still enjoyable nonetheless. I'll try to have the last chapter out ASAP!

Wash thinks he has been pretty good about containing himself thus far, but he almost loses it when he greets Tucker and Tucker practically jumps out of his armor. Tucker is more than punctual, for once; it’s almost six hundred hours, now, which is roughly an hour before they’re scheduled to meet. If Wash had known that scaring Tucker into being a better soldier would work so well--or that it would be so entertaining--he would’ve done it ages ago.

“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me!” Tucker slumps against the wall, relieved.

“Yes, I could see that,” Washington quips. “You’re up early. You’re not sleepwalking, are you?”

“If I were sleepwalking, I’d be a lot more naked than this.”

“Good point.” At this point, Wash would normally make a comment about Tucker shaking in his armor, but he’s feeling benevolent today. “Nervous?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Tucker replies with an anxious chuckle. “I blame you for all this,” he adds, but a mixture of exhaustion and the general anxiety slowly bubbling to the surface takes the bite out of it.

“Oh, I know you do.”

“Completely your fault.”

“Yep.”

They lapse into silence again, so Wash decides to take this moment to congratulate himself on a job well done. Really, he thinks he deserves it. He doesn’t get to have a lot of fun these days--and for good reason; it is a time of war, after all--but he  _ does _ have to indulge himself at least once in a while. There’s just something endlessly satisfying in watching a great plan work its magic, especially when it comes at the expense of Tucker’s stubborn pride.

And to think, it all started with Palomo.

Every morning since Washington decided to let Tucker train on his own time, he would send Palomo out to check on Tucker’s progress. Palomo would then return with a full status report, complete with running times and resting heart rates, and Wash would record them on his clipboard. This went on for about two weeks, until one day Palomo didn’t show up to practice on time, which forced Wash to delegate the duty to Jensen. She came running back just before Palomo arrived, breathless and horrified by what she had just witnessed.

At first, all he heard was panicked babbling and the potential onset of an asthma attack, but then he managed to pick out the words ‘sorry’ and ‘naked,’ both of which recurred at least five times each before he slowly began to piece everything together.

“Did you...walk in on Captain Tucker nude?” he asked, and if he sounded calm, it was only for the sake of calming  _ her _ down.

Jensen nodded frantically. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! P-P-Palomo never told me t-that he--”

“That he sleeps naked?” Wash suggested. “Meaning, he was sleeping when you found him. Meaning, he hasn’t even gotten out of bed, yet.”

“Well...yes? That’s what it seemed like.”

Washington went silent. Once Jensen was calm, she got about halfway through a question about what they were doing that day before Palomo came in.

“Hey, sorry I’m late! Did you want me to relay the usual message to Captain Tucker?” he asked with all the innocence of a  _ fucking liar _ .

“No. It’s fine.” The lieutenants went rigid and exchanged looks. Every single one of them could feel the icy chill in his voice. “Three laps, lieutenants.”

“Wait, already? But I just got here!”

“Four laps.”

All but Smith made noises of dissent before heading on their way, leaving Wash to simmer in his anger for a while. It was one thing for Tucker to take advantage of his kindness, but another entirely to rope his lieutenant into it. Really, what did he expect? This had classic Tucker written all over it. Where Wash went wrong was in assuming that he was dealing with a new kind of Tucker that was less childish and ignorant.

After the fourth lap, Palomo leaned against Smith for stability as he worked his way over to Wash. “Whew… Finally… Are you sure you don’t want me to stop by and check on Captain Tucker? I could use the fresh--”

“ _ Five laps _ !”

“Fuck’s sake, Palomo!”

Once training was done for the day, Washington headed straight for the cafeteria with the full intention of telling Tucker off in front of everyone, but when he arrived, it seemed that Carolina was already in the process of doing so. Wash assumed it had something to do with the mashed potatoes stuck in her hair.

“Hey, come on, it was an accident!” Tucker said. He sounded brave until his back hit a table and he squeaked a little bit.

“We are running on a  _ dangerously _ low supply of food and ammunitions, and here you are using what’s left to make  _ idiots _ out of yourselves!” Carolina erupted. She ran a hand through her hair and flicked potatoes onto some poor unsuspecting bystanders. Even then, most of it wasn’t coming out anytime soon. “Can’t you contain the antics for just five minutes? Just five?”

Tucker opened his mouth and looked between Carolina’s scowl and Grif’s half amused half horrified face, as if about to say something along the lines of ‘but he started it.’ After a moment of this, he caught Wash’s eye and froze. The look of terror intensified, to Wash’s admitted satisfaction, but it only lasted a fraction of a second before Carolina continued her rant and once again had his full attention.

That’s when it hit him. A lecture on lying and deception right now would only stick with Tucker for so long. Wash would need to raise the stakes a little if he was ever going to get through to him. He would need a bigger threat. He would need Carolina.

As soon as Carolina stormed out of the cafeteria, Epsilon popping up on her shoulder to calm her down, Wash sidled up to Tucker and observed. He could see beads of sweat running down Tucker’s forehead before he wiped them away with the back of his hand. His glistening skin normally would have fooled Wash into thinking he had actually worked out that morning, but now he was sure Tucker must have sprayed himself with something for the effect. Or maybe Carolina really  _ did  _ make him that nervous.

“Well, that sure was something,” Wash said casually.

Tucker snorted. “Tell me about it.” He froze again, his face transforming from snarky to horrified to anxious to, finally, a delayed poker face. He turned to Wash. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there. So, uh…” He cleared his throat. “How was practice?”

The balls on this one. “Just fine, thanks for asking. Jensen tells me you’ve been progressing as well,” Wash said. He watched relief flicker across Tucker’s face before he immediately hid it again.

“Jensen, yeah,” Tucker said, nodding far too vigorously. Wash wondered how he ever fell for this crap. Then Tucker flashed an admittedly endearing grin and patted his torso. “Yeah, totally. Gotta get that six pack.”

Part of Wash struggled not to expose him as a liar right then and there. The other part compelled him to snort fondly. “You know, I don’t think there’s that much opportunity to show off your abs around here. Considering everyone is usually wearing armor twenty-four seven.”

“Not with that attitude there isn’t.” Tucker winked, clicked his tongue, and fired off a finger gun right at Wash.

Wash placed a hand over his heart. “Be still my beating heart,” he said dryly, and Tucker’s grin widened, and dammit he was getting off track. “Anyway, what’d you do to piss Carolina off this time?”

The grin fell off Tucker’s face as he geared himself up for a rant. “It wasn’t my fault this time, I swear. The Reds were throwing food at me again.”

“So they missed and hit her instead?”

“Uh...no. I retaliated. But they started it.”

Wash sighed and nodded toward the pile of clean plates off to the side, motioning for Tucker to follow. Tucker took the hint reluctantly. “You better hope you get back on her good side by next week,” Wash said as he got in line.

“This is implying that I was on her good side in the first place. Wait...” Tucker paused and pursed his lips in what Wash liked to call his ‘thinking too hard’ expression. “‘By next week’?”

“Well, typically when someone says ‘by next week,’ they mean ‘if it’s Friday today, have it done by the time it’s Friday again,’” Wash said patiently.

Tucker rolled his eyes and held up a finger. “Okay, one: you just made it sound way more confusing. Two”--a second finger--”you know what I mean. Why do I have a deadline?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” Wash lowered his voice conspiratorially, which forced Tucker to lean in to hear him. “I may have mentioned to Carolina that you’re training on your own time now, and that I would be performing an inspection of your progress next week. She sounded pretty skeptic of the whole thing, so she insisted that I let her observe.” He paused. “She...implied that she would take things into her own hands if you guys aren’t up to par. As in, she’d train you herself.”

“ _ What _ ?!” Tucker shouted right in his ear, causing him to flinch and several bystanders to stare. “And you said yes?! You can’t let her do that!”

“I’m afraid I have no say in the matter,” Wash said grimly as he rubbed his ear. “Also, I’m standing right here. Just saying.”

“Of course you have a say! Tell her she can’t come! Tell her she can’t train me!”

Wash raised an eyebrow. “You think _ I  _ have any control over her? And like I said, this is only if you aren’t up to par. You’ve been doing great so far.” He fought off the temptation to smirk and patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Just...don’t piss her off.”

Tucker was staring into space, as if he hadn’t heard a word Wash said. He looked pale. “I’m so screwed,” he said to no one.

Indeed he was. “Well, if it’s any consolation,  _ I _ have faith in you,” Wash said. The brief look of guilt on Tucker’s face was almost enough to make him relent a little. Almost.

“I’m gonna go...squeeze some squats in. And maybe some laps.” With that and a sufficiently haunted look, Tucker left.

The next step was to get Carolina to play along, which would be tough. It was hard to even get the topic in during their evening beer. Things had been a bit rough for the last couple of weeks, mainly due to the constant retreats and even their most successful missions bearing little fruit. As such, she had a lot to complain about. Much of it ultimately amounted to her needing  _ way _ more assistance, but Kimball and Doyle were still trying to figure out how to divide the work among their troops and there was even something of a custody battle going on over the Reds and Blues. Wash figured that it would all blow over eventually, once the leaders got tired of arguing about it and moved on to some other pressing matter, and Carolina agreed, but she was still sick of waiting around for them to stop squabbling and start focusing on the problem at hand.

In the end, listening to Carolina always gave him some perspective. Being stuck at the base training the troops made it easy for Wash to forget that there was still a world outside their little community, which was why he relied on Carolina for reality checks every now and then. This was truly no time for ridiculous arguments and petty grudges. Carolina pointed this out to him once he finally got a word in about Tucker, which puzzled him, quite honestly.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked.

Carolina peered at him over the rim of her beer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re jumping through all these hoops just to teach him a lesson.”

“Yeah, dude, just yell at him and get it over with,” Church piped in. “He’s a little shit. So what? That’s how he’s always been.”

“That may be how you dealt with him back at Blood Gulch, but those were different times and different circumstances,” Wash replied. He didn’t mention that Tucker was different, too; he wasn’t so sure about that one, anymore. “Besides, I’ve tried that tactic. If I yell at him, he’ll just yell back. Then he’ll whine and complain when I try to get him to train with the others. Then we’ll end up arguing again. And then that somehow leads to Caboose nearly killing us all with a giant machine.”

Church shrugged. “That happens  _ regardless  _ of whether or not you’re arguing with Tucker.”

“He needs discipline,” Carolina added, much more helpfully. “I know it’s hard because he’s your friend. He’s my friend, too. But we are living in a desperate time and he needs to realize that. And sometimes being nice isn’t the way to get through to someone.”

Wash nodded. “So that’s why you yelled at him at lunch.”

“Well, that and it took forever to get those potatoes out of her hair,” said Church, earning a side eye from Carolina. “What? It’s true. You kept grumbling about it while you washed it out for, like, an hour.”

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Carolina continued, ignoring him, “my point is, don’t coddle him. Or waste time playing games with him.”

Wash sighed. “I don’t know. I just...I thought I already got through to him at the crash site, you know? I don’t know what went wrong. I want to fix it.”

Carolina exchanged a look with Church before taking a deep, reluctant breath. “Well… If it’s really that important to you, I’ll help. All I have to do is show up, right?”

“Yeah, pretty much. And act like you’re judging him.”

“Oh, she doesn’t have to act to do that,” said Church.

“Also, keep him on,” Wash said as an afterthought, pointing a thumb at Church. “It’ll piss Tucker off.”

“Don’t have to try very hard to do that, either.”

The following week, Palomo reported in every day with significantly more realistic numbers, much to Wash’s relief. The reports that came in through Smith from Caboose remained relatively the same, but Wash was much less concerned about that. Caboose couldn’t lie to save his life, and Wash figured that the exercises were pretty much nothing for him. What took Tucker an hour on a good day would take Caboose fifteen minutes tops on a shitty one. The only issue was his aim, which Caboose practiced every Friday with Wash for half an hour in between practice sessions. No progress on that front, but Wash never said he was a miracle worker.

For a long time, Tucker could be spotted doing squats at any time of day; when he was eating, drinking, in line for the bathroom, and according to Kimball, even in the war room. He jogged to and from meetings, did sit-ups while reading reports, and ran through the obstacle course a few times in his spare time. It was getting to the point where Tucker would collapse out of exhaustion in the middle of the hallway, and the duty of carrying him back to his room cycled through all the Reds and Blues before finally they just agreed that Caboose should do it, being the strongest out of all of them. Then the duty was reassigned to Wash when Caboose kept forgetting which room was Tucker’s.

Wash considered letting Tucker off the hook several times, particularly when he removed Tucker’s helmet and saw his face, vulnerable and asleep. Tucker has surely learned his lesson by now, he would think, but then he would remember that he thought the same thing after the crash site. Wash needed to get through to him this time, no matter what. If it meant a week of torture and mind games, then so be it.

All of this led to this day, today, with Tucker a mess of nerves outside the training room. Wash hasn’t seen him since he finally got shipped off on a mission with Carolina the other day, but today, finally, Tucker has returned. Today,  _ finally _ the day has come, and…

Actually. It’s a bit uncomfortable.

After a long period of inexplicably tense silence, Washington coughs. Tucker doesn’t even lift his head. Wash had fully expected Tucker to be nervous, but this is significantly less explosive and entertaining than the dozens of meltdowns Tucker has had over the past week. This isn’t Tucker frantically doing squats in the cafeteria or jogging through the halls; this is Tucker staring into space, silenced by a sense of foreboding that Wash is all too familiar with.

Wash considers asking him what’s wrong, but Tucker beats him to it.

“You know, Palomo almost died the other day.” Tucker says it in a hollow kind of way, like he’s trying to sound casual about it but his mind is too far away. Washington looks at him.

“That seems to happen with him a lot,” Wash comments when Tucker doesn’t add anything else.

“I mean, yeah, I guess.” Tucker’s staring straight ahead at nothing. Wash can tell he’s not really present right now. “It was my fault. I got cocky and gave away our position. Dumbass move. He would’ve ended up getting shot straight through the head if Carolina hadn’t been there with her shield. A  _ lot _ of people could’ve died.”

Wash shrugs. “Well...good thing she was there, then.”

“Yeah... Good thing. At least she knew what to do.” The bitterness in Tucker’s voice is not lost on him. And then there is silence. Wash can only imagine the things he’s thinking right now, none of them healthy or productive.

“We’ve talked about this, Tucker,” Wash says gently. “It doesn’t get any easier, living with your mistakes. It’s always hard. You should be thankful this time was just a close call.”

“You know, that’s just it, Wash,” Tucker says, suddenly confrontational. His voice grows louder. “We  _ have _ talked about this already, because the same shit keeps happening. I keep fucking up missions because I think I know better, but I don’t. I never do. I just rely on people smarter than me to get my ass out of trouble and fix everything I break. I haven’t  _ learned _ anything!” He emphasizes ‘learned’ with a punch at the wall. The impact of it is enough to echo down the hall.

Wash is stunned. “Tucker…”

“I  _ know _ , I know,” Tucker speaks over him, like he’s already anticipating some kind of lecture. “I’m being a giant baby. I’m always gonna be making mistakes, blah blah blah, but aren’t I supposed to make less at some point? Yeah, I used to be a lot worse, but it’s like at some point I just...stopped growing. I went from mediocre to average at best. Is that really the best I can be?”

Washington has to tear his eyes away from Tucker for a moment, because he can’t actually see his face but he can just imagine the earnestness and fear and disappointment all scrunched up in one expression. Maybe Wash was too quick to judge. Tucker may have slipped up, but that doesn’t mean that he backtracked to being the same old Tucker from Blood Gulch.

Eventually, Wash chuckles. “You know, you’re always surprising me, Tucker. Just when I think you’ve reached your limit, you turn around and show me that you’re still willing to try even more. You always want to be better than you are right now. You’re actually kind of an overachiever.”

Tucker snorts. “That’s kind of a stretch,” he says, skeptic yet somewhat mollified now. “And by kind of I mean seriously, not even close.”

“You need to stop selling yourself short, Tucker.” Wash says it slowly, with emphasis, because Tucker needs to really hear him this time. “It’s good that you’re being hard on yourself. That’s normal. That means you’re taking this seriously. But you can’t expect to improve overnight.”

“I guess... But even with all the training I crammed in this week, I feel like...nothing’s really changed, you know? It’s like I’m running in circles. At least when I was training under you, it felt like I was actually going somewhere.”

Wash touches Tucker’s shoulder and squeezes. “Look, Tucker...” Tucker looks at him. “If you want to train under me again, you can.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, “I’ll...I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it? Wow... I’ve changed my mind. Go fuck yourself.”

“Jesus, fine, I’ll do it.”

“Nope, too late. Have fun with Carolina.”

“Man, fuck off!” Tucker swats his hand off. Wash laughs; he can’t hold it in, anymore. “Getting my hopes up like that. Yeah, laugh it up, Agent Washington.”

“That’s what you get for being wishy-washy, Lavernius.”

Tucker punches his shoulder. “Jackass.”

“Ah,  _ there’s _ the Tucker we all know and love.”

“Love, huh?”

“If you guys are about to fuck in the middle of the hallway,” Carolina cuts in, startling them, “you could at least wait until it’s empty.” Her helmet is off and under her arm, allowing her to glare at full power. Her eyes are pinned on Tucker.

“‘Morning, Carolina,” Wash says evenly, composing himself. “We were just waiting on you and Caboose.”

“Captain Caboose will be with us shortly.” Carolina opens the door. “After you.”

Tucker hesitates at the door. “Hey, Carolina, about the mission…”

“Don’t want to talk about it. Go.”

Tucker enters without further delay, completely deflated. Wash stops Carolina before she can follow. “Listen, maybe we should lighten up on him a little. He’s really beating himself up about what happened, and I don’t--”

“Good. He should be.”

“And I agree, but adding onto his guilt won’t solve anything. Just be patient with him.”

“Wash,” Carolina says in that voice that means she is one wrong look away from pounding his face in, “I have been ‘patient’ with too many things for far too long. It’s time to take a hands-on approach.”

With that, Carolina stomps off into the training room. Epsilon pops up behind her.

“Yeah, Tucker’s screwed.”


	3. Lesson Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tucker faces consequences for his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big part of this chapter in particular was inspired by eggstasy's "After," which is definitely worth a look. It takes place in the aftermath of season 13 and really gives some great insight into the minds of some of the cast. I'm still new to this site and am not sure how to paste links, but if you search it on AO3, I am pretty sure it will come up. Stick around for an important announcement at the end of the fic! And thanks for waiting, everyone.

Tucker limps over to the shooting range to take a load off after getting thoroughly pummeled by Wash for the fourth or fifth time. The second and third times sort of blurred together; in general, the whole thing was a fuzzy cloud of pain and humiliation. 

He had been expecting this day to be a living nightmare, especially after screwing up the mission, but he _definitely_ hadn’t prepared himself for this. Every time Washington assigned him something--laps, crunches, squats, push-ups--Carolina would double it. She put him through the obstacle course three times in order to gather his ‘average completion time,’ made him shoot at targets running around the training room (some of the lieutenants holding the targets screamed the whole time) and then pitted him against Wash in hand-to-hand combat. They fought five times total, with Tucker getting in maybe three hits compared to Wash’s overwhelming twenty. In retrospect, fighting Carolina would’ve been worse, but he still wishes Wash would’ve held back a _little_. 

Now he’s sitting among a collection of abandoned cones, watching Caboose square off against Carolina. Washington eventually joins Tucker on the sidelines, and he’s still in full armor but clearly looks none too pleased. He had been pretty vocal about his disapproval when Carolina put him up against Tucker, and he protested even louder when she announced that she would go up against Caboose. Ultimately, Caboose intervened and said that he didn’t mind, though he probably only said that to stop the fighting. Wash doesn’t say anything about it now, however. He just stands there and broods.

Tucker isn’t so withholding. “I don’t get it,” he says, and Wash looks at him. “I thought I was the one she was pissed at. Why is she taking it out on Caboose?”

“I don’t know, but it’s excessive,” Wash replies tersely. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Dude, someone _already_ got hurt. At this rate, someone’s gonna get murdered.”

“There’s no point in working someone to the bone if there’s no reward for it,” Washington continues as if Tucker hadn’t spoken. “This isn’t discipline. It’s just punishment.”

Wash says it so intensely that Tucker kind of wants to tell him to chill, but no, he’s right; Carolina really might kill them at the rate this is going. So instead, he shrugs and shifts gears slightly. “She can’t keep us in here forever, can she?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I guess not. I’ve got a training session with the Reds in fifteen.”

“So you’re saying it’s almost over.”

“I’m saying I’ll have to tell her to wrap it up soon. Whether or not she actually listens is another story.”

“Just once, could you say something encouraging? Just once.”

Washington doesn’t answer for a moment. Tucker assumes he has elected to ignore him until finally he replies, “Nice form. For a rookie.”

“Wow. That gave me goosebumps.”

Rather than telling Tucker he’s not in the mood for their banter, Wash just grunts, which means he’s _really_ not in the mood. Tucker lets it go.

Meanwhile, Caboose finishes stretching and stands up straight. “‘Kay, I’m ready.”

Carolina nods. “Alright…” She assumes a fighting stance. “Begin.” Carolina charges forward; Caboose, meanwhile, stands perfectly still, lost in thought.

“Hey, wait, I’ve got a q--”

And then Carolina flips Caboose on his back with a thunderous _thud_. Silence falls over the room for about five seconds before Caboose reacts with a scream and subsequent grunt of pain.

“I’m okay,” Caboose chokes out. Carolina helps him back up and resumes her fighting stance.

“Carolina, you’ve proved your point,” Wash shouts over the noise of Caboose getting knocked down again. Each time ends with Caboose’s delayed reaction, and then a hasty reassurance that he’s fine. It happens three more times before Carolina finally seems to be satisfied, or at least tired of shoving him around. She dusts herself off and looks at him with all the intensity anyone could be capable of inside a helmet, like she’s trying to stare him to death. Tucker almost thinks she might _actually_ murder Caboose, but then she’s motioning for a sidebar with Wash and shooing Caboose away. Caboose comes bounding over to take Wash’s place at Tucker’s side, injured but not quite enough to hamper the spring in his step.

“Tucker, did I win?”

“I’m pretty sure we both lost. Big time.”

“Oh. That’s okay, maybe next time.”

Silence.

“What were we playing again?”

“I think it’s called ‘beat the crap out of the idiot.’”

“Aw, man, I’m really bad at that one.” Caboose takes a seat next to Tucker, displacing several cones at once. “Credit for your thoughts?”

“I…” Caboose shoves a cR in Tucker’s face. After ultimately deciding that it’s just one credit and anyway Caboose probably sees it as a genuine offering, Tucker takes the cR and sticks it in his armor. “I’m good. Just tired.”

Caboose kicks his feet and looks up at the ceiling as if it were the sky. “Yeeeah, it’s really early, huh?”

“Not that kinda tired. More like, tired of this damn training exam. We suck. We know. We’re Blues. S’not news to anyone.”

“It’s news to me,” Caboose says meekly. “I think _I’m_ pretty cool. You’re...you’re okay, too.” He says the last part like it’s a secret. It’s enough to make Tucker crack a smile. “And we’ve done a lot of pretty cool things. Not, um, not _today_ , but before today. So, yeah, I’d say we’re pretty set on the cool thing.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Tucker tries not to think about how whiny he was outside the training room. Why does he need to act like he’s some brave hero, anyway? They have Wash and Carolina, now. They’re all the leadership they need.

“Hey guys,” Church chimes in, popping up on Tucker’s shoulder. Tucker groans. Church had spent half the time laughing at them while they endured Carolina’s torture, and the other half muttering about how he definitely didn’t miss experiencing human sensations. As such, Tucker greeted him with a middle finger. “Aw. Good to see you, too, buddy.”

“Fuck you,” Tucker says, but that’s really the limit to his anger. He’s too tired to be any more. “Why aren’t you with Carolina?”

“Uh, well…” Church looks off in the agents’ direction. “That conversation was getting a little too intense for me, so I thought I’d pop over here and see how you guys were doing.”

“I can’t feel my toes,” Caboose says with his usual complacency.

Church pops up in front of Caboose, looking him up and down like he’s scanning his body; literally, Tucker realizes. Sometimes it’s still hard to remember that he’s an _actual computer_. “Yeah, you should...you should probably get that checked out, buddy,” Church says eventually.

“Oh, I’m still not allowed back in the medical wing after last Tuesday.”

Church pauses like he’s not sure if he really wants to know. “Alright. What did--?”

“I made friends with the MRI. And then it exploded.”

“Ah.”

“His name was Murray.”

“We’re going to need the whole wing once Carolina’s through with us,” says Tucker, watching Carolina and Washington bicker in the corner. They’re making a decent attempt to keep their voices down, but there’s a lot of heated gesticulating to fill in some of the holes.

“Maybe _you_ will,” says Church. “Caboose could get run over by three warthogs and still have the strength to bench-press all of them.”

Tucker hums. “True. Maybe Carolina will spend so much time trying to break him, she’ll just break herself.”

“Aw, that just, aw, gosh, guys! What a nice thing to say!” Caboose mimes like he’s patting Church’s tiny head. “Thank you, Tucker and tiny Church.”

Tucker sighs. “So I’m definitely boned?”

"Oh, yes, probably," Caboose says.

Church doesn’t respond right away, which is odd. Tucker’s about to make a dry comment about Church lagging or something, but Church talks over the attempt. “You’ve gotten pretty serious about this whole soldier thing lately, haven’t you?”

Now Tucker is the one who needs a moment. “That...came out of nowhere. I mean, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Huh.”

“So…?”

“Nothing. Just makes sense, I guess.”

“Man, stop being so cryptic. It’s bad enough that Wash is always speaking in weird one-liners all the time.”

“Tucker, Caboose,” Carolina says, interrupting. Her helmet’s off and under her arm, and her face is a little sweaty--slamming Caboose into the ground like that clearly took more energy than expected--but otherwise neutral. Tucker gulps.

“In light of today’s results…” she says slowly, and even now Tucker can’t figure out if she’s sentencing them to training in hell or letting them off the hook out of pure exasperation. He exchanges looks with Caboose when she takes too much time to continue. “Wash and I have come up with a proposal.”

“I accept,” Caboose says immediately. “I knew you guys were going to tie the knot.”

Carolina stares. To her credit, her incredulity and confusion doesn’t last as long as it used to. “Caboose, how do you think marriage proposals work?”

“Well, I thought one person’s supposed to propose to the other, but you guys can do it however you want, I suppose. I don’t judge.”

She sucks in a deep breath. “We would like to offer you,” she says on the exhale, “advanced individualized training.”

Nothing happens for a moment. No one says anything, no one reacts. There’s just silence and the general sense that nobody knows _how_ they’re supposed to react.

“Specialized what now?” Tucker says eventually.

“Private individualized training sessions, for both of you,” Washington explains. “These sessions could cover a lot of things not offered in regular training, like advanced hand to hand combat, stealth; special ops-level stuff, basically.”

“By ‘we,’” Caboose says, raising a hand, “do you mean you and Carolina or the royal ‘we’?”

“What? That’s not a thing,” says Tucker.

“Yes it is, and no, we mean Carolina and me,” Washington replies with the expertise of someone who has endured enough derailed conversations to know when to intervene. “I’d work with Tucker and Carolina would work with you, Caboose. If you say yes, that is.”

Tucker suppresses a laugh. “Carolina training _Caboose_? One or both of you is going to die somehow.”

“You can take it or leave it, guys. Wash and I just think you deserve a chance to improve.” Carolina’s looking straight at Tucker now, which compels him to look back. “We think you could do a lot better if you tried.”

Tucker’s face burns. Wash must have told her about his stupid outburst from earlier. He’s not sure which urge is stronger: the one to kill him or thank him. Either way, there is some benevolence in Carolina’s face that relaxes him a little.

Tucker takes a deep breath, averting his eyes. “Uh, okay… Let me think about--”

“Tucker,” Wash says warningly.

“What? I’m being serious!” The two agents continue to stare. “Alright, fine, I’ll do it!”

“Good.” Carolina looks at Caboose. “And you?”

Caboose hums. “Maybe,” he says carefully. “Maybe...not. Or maybe...yes? Maybe…” A pause. “I forget what the question is.”

With more patience than Tucker thought she had left in her, Carolina repeats herself. “Ohhh! Like a playdate,” says Caboose once she’s finished. “Except where we’re punching each other and learning stuff. An educational playdate.” Caboose shrugs. “Okie doke. I’ll do it.”

Carolina actually _smiles_ , which definitely throws Tucker for a loop. “Good. We’ll start tomorrow.”

“Okay! Oh, wait, I have a--” Caboose pauses to raise his hand. “I have a question.”

“Walk with me. We can talk about it on the way to the war room.”

And with that, the two of them are off, Church reappearing on Carolina’s shoulder as they leave the training room. Tucker watches as the doors close behind their backs. He’s still figuring out whether he should be mortified or relieved; the former is fighting a good battle, but the latter seems to be winning. Embarrassing or not, Wash _did_ kind of save him.

The debate occupies him so much that it’s not until Wash is about halfway through whatever he’s saying that Tucker even realizes he’s talking at all.

“Hey, Wash,” Tucker says, holding up a hand. “Whatever it is you said to her...thanks. I can’t believe she just...forgave me like that out of nowhere.”

“Uh, that part wasn’t me, actually. In fact, this idea was mostly hers.” Wash looks out over the training room and watches as the Reds slowly trickle in, half-awake and yawning. “She wanted to push you guys to the limit so she could see your full potential. When she did, she realized that you’d need better training to get any better than you are now. So she wanted to train you both herself.”

“Wait, _that’s_ why? Dang, that’s sneaky.” Tucker hops down from the ledge, knocking down the last few cones in the process. “Why is she only training Caboose, then?”

“If I had it my way, I’d be training you both myself. But Carolina insisted that that would be too much work on top of all the other people I train, and she also thought…” Wash stops himself. “Uh, never mind.”

“What?”

“It’s ridiculous, don’t ask.”

Tucker deadpans. He knows Wash can’t see it, but still. “Man, stop being so mysterious and just say it.”

“She…” Wash sucks in a deep breath, then clears his throat. “Basically, she thinks I’m playing favorites, too.”

“What the fuck!” Tucker shouts loud enough that the Reds are looking at them now. “Her, too?! So we _are_ your favorites!”

“Of course not!” Wash must realize his own volume, because he pauses to lower his voice. “You know how hard it is to get Caboose to even hold his gun the right way, and there’s no way she can handle your attitude problem. Out of the two of us, I’m the one who knows you guys better.”

“Then how come you’re not the one training both of us?”

“That…” Again, Wash stops himself. He doesn’t say anything further; just lets it hang there.

After a while, Tucker takes pity and sighs. “Whatever, just don’t tell Grif.”

“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

***

Grif knows about it by lunchtime. Tucker doesn’t even need to ask; Grif automatically mimes out a blowjob the second he sees Tucker enter the cafeteria.

“Man, I don’t know what your deal is,” Tucker says as he sits down across from him, because his lunchroom options are limited. “You know he put me through hell after he found out I’ve been slacking.” He had put two and two together pretty easily; Palomo had come begging for forgiveness the day Wash found out.

“Yeah, and now you get to have your stupid special training in the afternoon, while schmucks like me, Simmons, and Donut have to get up at six in the morning.” Grif shakes his head. “If only I had those DSL.”

“I have to get up early, too!” Tucker says, trying not to self-consciously cover his mouth. “Wash’s making me do laps by myself every morning. And crunches, and squats, and push-ups. I’m basically doing what you’re doing, but more.”

“A likely story.”

“If you’re doing the same thing we’re doing at the same time, then why don’t you just practice with us?” Simmons adds. “Sounds suspicious.”

“Reeeeal suspicious. Sounds like an excuse for some private bang time.”

“That would explain why Caboose isn’t being trained by Agent Washington. He’s isolating his prey.”

“His horny student prey.”

“Shut up, assholes,” Tucker says finally. His face is hot; not that they can tell the difference, anyway, but he hates it all the same. “Man, what is up with you and all the gay jokes lately? There are only so many times you can talk about me blowing Wash before it gets really old. Like, really, really old.”

“They’re not jokes,” says Grif. Tucker deadpans. “Okay, some of them are. But it’s not a joke if it’s true.”

“You seriously think me and Wash are banging.”

“Maybe not bang _ing_. More like some other tense, like ‘will bang’ or ‘are about to bang’ or ‘banged in a past life and are bound to bang again.’ Especially after you and him spend some alone time in the private gym.”

Tucker wants to correct him on that--it’s just smaller, it’s not private; private sounds too intimate--but the point seems kind of moot. He looks at Simmons. “Can you believe this guy? Tell me you don’t believe him.”

“I dunno. The more he talks about it, the more sense it makes.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Well, why _else_ would he offer private lessons exclusively for you?”

“It wasn’t his idea! It--ugh.” Tucker digs aggressively into his food. “Forget it. Fuck you guys. Go ask Wash if you really wanna know.”

“Oh, we don’t have to ask Wash to know the answer.” Grif clicks his tongue.

Simmons shakes his head. “We already know all of your dirty little secrets.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “I like you two better when you’re fighting each other.”

“You know what? I kinda do, too.” Grif turns to Simmons. “Simmons, disagree with me on something.”

“What? But I like working together!”

“There we go, that’s it. Keep it coming.”

“Tucker.” Carolina approaches the table, plate of food in hand. She makes a clearly conscious decision to move her hair to the shoulder furthest from the Reds before continuing. “How are you feeling? I think I might have dislocated your shoulder earlier.”

“Yep, you did. Dr. Grey got me covered, though.” Tucker rolls both shoulders for emphasis. “Good as new.”

Carolina nods. “That’s good. Sorry about that. I know I was pretty hard on you. And yes, I said hard-on. Bow chicka bow wow,” she adds before he can even get a syllable out. She grins a bit sheepishly when his mouth drops open. “Have I gotten the hang of it, yet?”

“You’re gonna run me out of a job at this rate,” Tucker says with an incredulous laugh. Weirdness with Wash aside, he’s more than a little relieved that things with Carolina are okay.

She sobers up quite quickly, though there’s something restrained in her expression. “You’ve...spoken to Wash about your training, haven’t you?”

Tucker doesn’t know where she’s going with this, but he braces himself for it, anyway. He can feel Grif and Simmons watching. “Yeah, we’re all set.”

“Good, good.” Carolina frowns. “Try not to get distracted.”

Cue the snickering. Tucker kicks them under the table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just as I said.”

“Why would I get distracted? It’s Wash. He shoots me in the ass when I so much as stare into space.”

“You’re probably right,” Carolina says like he’s not right at all. “It’s just something to keep in mind.” She then nods to the table as a whole, signaling her leave. “See you, guys.”

With that, she leaves, Tucker sputtering after her. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, just thinks things like _no_ , _stop implying weird things_ , _come back here so I can convince you_ and hopes really hard that she can feel it. No such luck; she leaves the cafeteria to join Kimball in the hall. Once the doors close behind her, he sinks back into his seat and feels a bit like everyone else is in on some private joke that he’s not getting. He can’t even fathom where this whole ‘Agent Washington and Captain Tucker are totally getting it on’ _thing_ could have come from, but he’s sure everybody’s getting a good laugh out of it somehow.

Meanwhile, Grif’s snickering starts to bubble over. “Told you.”

“That didn’t mean anything.”

“Uh huh.”

“She could have been talking about _anything_.”

“Yup.”

Tucker remains in denial for about two more seconds before finally he buries his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

***

Tucker has a habit of coming too early when he’s nervous. Coming to training that is. He considers bow chicka bow wow-ing himself when he realizes this, but no, that’s just sad. And there’s nothing sexy about this situation. Nothing at all.

He’s wearing civvies as per Washington’s request; just sweatpants and an old tank top that has started to feel tight on him. His body feels lighter and more sensitive to the air around him as a result, and he finds himself bouncing on the balls of his feet a lot just to adjust to his new weight. The floors and walls are padded for safety, and there are inspirational posters plastered in various places. They all have cheesy generic sayings that all leaders say, like ‘life never stops moving and neither should you’ or ‘what gets YOU up in the morning?’ and even a black and white photo of a soldier looking out the window and thinking ‘hang in there.’ Tucker reads them and hopes they aren’t supposed to set the tone for how these private lessons are going to go. Cringe-worthy lines aside, there’s a fine line between caring about someone and condescending to them, although Wash has surely walked it before. In fact, sometimes Tucker suspects that Washington thinks of him like his rebellious teenage son, which makes it that much harder for him to see their _very platonic friendship_ as a _sexual relationship_ , for God’s sake.

“You’re here early,” Wash says, startling him out of his thoughts. “Again.”

Wash has on a faded Grifball tee and shorts that reach down to his knees, and it makes him look so much like a middle aged dad that Tucker can’t help but smirk. It’s the first time Tucker has seen so much of his skin; the guy’s so white it almost _blinds_ him. There are some faded freckles traveling from his biceps--his admittedly impressive, admittedly firmer biceps--down to his forearms. Scars ranging from hot white to fresh pink come down his limbs as well; there are even more if Tucker squints a little, faded and vaguely present but there.

“Whoa, Wash,” Tucker teases, trying to sound like he wasn’t just checking him out, “I didn’t know you wore clothes like a regular human being.”

“Proving once again that I am not a cybernetic robot built by Sarge to torment you,” Washington retorts easily.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Tucker watches as Washington sets down a duffel bag and opens it up. There’s the shadow of a burn on the back of his neck that Tucker notices before realizing how much attention he has spent on Wash’s skin in the past sixty seconds. That needs to stop, he thinks. Like, now. “So what’re we doing today?”

“Well, we haven’t formally gone over the basics of unarmed combat, yet, so we’ll run through that first and then we’ll try some sparring.” Wash tosses Tucker a mouth guard. “You might need this.”

“Yikes. Seriously?”

“I’ll try to go easy on you for now,” Wash replies, the corners of his lips twitching a little. “Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Lay it on me.”

Washington’s brief lecture is actually easier to listen to than expected, but Tucker thinks that might be because he just doesn’t want to end up getting sent to the medical wing again. A lot of it really is basic--blocking, parrying, how to look for weak points--but it somehow sounds a lot smarter when Wash explains it. They practice a few simple moves once or twice before finally moving on to the main event, at which point Wash assumes a fighting stance and gives Tucker a moment to find his footing.

“Don’t counterstrike unless you’re sure you can land it. Remember, the goal is to defend for at least sixty seconds,” Washington says in what Tucker has decided is his teaching voice. It’s a lot gentler than his regular training voice, which always seems to get louder and hoarser the longer the session goes on. This voice, this Wash, they’ve somehow tapped into an infinite well of patience and wisdom that makes Tucker feel safe, somehow--or at least about as safe as he can feel when he knows that Wash is literally about to attack him.

Before Tucker can get too lost in these thoughts, he refocuses. Don’t get distracted, he thinks. There are no fucking distractions.

After a short, affirmative nod from Tucker, Washington takes his cue and comes in with a jab to his stomach--blocked. Shoulder--dodged. Face--dodged. Chest--parried. Knee--fuck. It takes a while to get into the rhythm of things, Tucker searching frantically for signs and forewarnings of which attack is coming next, his mind and heart racing with the excitement. He had rolled his eyes when Wash called it a dance earlier, and it’s not like he’s an expert in dancing himself, but he imagines that this really is what it feels like. Each move has a response, each action a reaction, and he’s grinning a little by the end of it because occasional pain aside, this is _fun_.

He doesn’t know how it happens; all he remembers is a sudden rush of excitement and the impact of his foot into Washington’s side and _boom_ , his counterattack lands. It elicits a sharp grunt as Wash falls onto the floor, wide-eyed and bewildered. They remain like that for a while: slack-jawed, panting, both of them trying to fully digest what just happened. Wash is the first to crack a grin, the sight of which floods Tucker with a mixture of relief and pride. Tucker takes this as a sign that he has permission to celebrate, so he pumps his fist in the air and woops.

“Fuck yeah, I got one! Suck it! _Yes_!”

“After getting knocked down ten times,” Wash adds dryly, sitting up, “yes. You finally did. Congrats.”

“Hey, one’s better than none, son.”

“It’s a good start, yeah. Think you can do it again?”

Tucker’s entire body is screaming at him not to, but he can’t _not_ when Wash says it like that; like he’s _daring_ him. He extends a hand to help Wash up. “Fuck yeah, I think I can d--whoa!”

Washington squeezes Tucker’s hand tight and jerks him forward so that he lands awkwardly on top of him. Tucker’s weight is not quite enough to push Wash flat on his back, however, so Tucker ends up half on his lap, his chest landing painfully against Wash’s shoulder. Tucker’s hands land on either side of Wash, one of them brushing the side of Wash’s pinky. None of this really registers at first; all he can think is that Wash is pretty warm and his shirt is damp and he’s breathing really, _really_ close to Tucker’s ear and is that Wash’s arm around him? Did he _catch_ him?

“Make that eleven times,” Wash says in his ear, smirking. Tucker can’t remember what he’s referring to. He’s too busy focusing on the fact that he can actually _feel_ his fucking smirk.

There must be some kind of reaction Wash was expecting, because his body tenses when Tucker doesn’t respond right away. Tucker can feel it, his muscles clenching, his jaw tightening. “Fuck off,” Tucker manages out, because what else is he supposed to say? But there’s no heat in it. He sounds weak and oddly parched.

After another moment of Tucker desperately trying to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do, Washington moves like he’s trying to push Tucker off. Tucker isn’t really sure what he’s thinking, but his instinct is to push back, so he does. He takes Wash by the shoulders and pushes until his back hits the floor, and now he’s towering over him and it’s kind of a miracle that Wash hasn’t retaliated, yet. From this proximity, it’s hard not to analyze his skin again. Little freckles frost his nose like sprinkles. The skin where his shirt’s riding up is pale. Hints of his six pack peek out from underneath, deep lines outlining hard muscle. Tucker forces himself to stop looking before his eyes can reach the waistband, because no, _no_ , that’s too much. They return to Wash’s face, but not before stopping to admire the way his chest rises and falls with increasing speed. When he finally reaches Wash’s face, Wash’s eyes are wide with confusion, his lips chapped and parted slightly. It pisses Tucker off a little. Wash is the one that started this. He should be the one who knows where this is going. Tucker sure as hell doesn’t.

“What…” Wash says dumbly. His voice cracks. His face goes pink. He swallows. Tucker follows the movement of his throat with an inexplicable fascination. “ _What_ are you--?”

The P.A. system blares loudly, though it’s muffled by the door. “Will Captain Caboose please report to Dr. Grey’s office? Captain Caboose to Dr. Grey. It’s an emergency. Please... _please_ come. Captain Caboose. Dr. Grey. That is all.”

Finally, it clicks off. Then it clicks on again.

“Bring a fire extinguisher.” Click.

As if woken from a dream, Tucker immediately gets up and off and as far away from Wash as possible. His heart pounds in his ears. He tries to hold onto a solid thought--anything, any singular solid thought--but his mind remains a fuzzy mantra of ‘what the fuck just happened?’ Eventually, Wash gets up as well, though he’s much slower than Tucker. Without a word, without so much as even _looking_ Tucker’s way, Wash gathers his things and stuffs them into his duffel bag. Tucker braces himself for whatever harsh lecture Wash is building up to; something about discipline, maybe, or self-restraint, or horseplay. At least it’ll be better than the silence they’re enduring right now. It _has_ to be.

“So...um…” Washington coughs meekly. Oh no. “Same time next week, then.”

Tucker feels like he’s just experienced some kind of whiplash. “But...you...said this is supposed to be a daily thing,” he says, and since when was _he_ the voice of reason in this dynamic?

“Oh.”

Silence.

“So I did.”

More silence.

“Same time...tomorrow, then,” Wash amends. “Good, um. Good work.”

Tucker waits a full ten seconds after Wash speed-walks out of there before he buries his face in his hands and groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! As I've probably already mentioned, I haven't written fanfiction in a while, so I sincerely appreciate all the support and encouragement I've received for this fic. It makes me happy to know that there are people who have as much fun reading this fic as I have writing it. It's partly because of how fun it is and partly because I have a bad habit of writing long/slow burn fics that I've decided that I can't write this story in three chapters. I'm not sure how long it'll end up being, but I hope you guys will stick with me through it. That being said, this chapter took a bit longer to release because I've been busy with college, and also because it's a bit longer, so the subsequent chapters will probably take a while, too. I definitely intend to finish this fic, but please be patient with me in the meantime. Thanks again!
> 
> Also, pardon my newness, but I actually just now found out that I can reply to comments, so if you haven't gotten a reply from me, I'm not ignoring you; I just didn't know. Sorry!


	4. Lesson Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tensions rise and Wash is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks again so much for all the comments and support! I'm sorry it has taken me so long to get this up; college has kind of been kicking my ass lately. I definitely, definitely wanted to get this up in time for Valentine's Day, though, so I made some time to write it all out and now here it is! I worked pretty hard to keep the quality up, but I had to write a lot of this in chunks due to time constraints, so the writing might not flow as well as it used to. Also, I'm sorry it took me so long to reply to comments; again, school has been kicking my ass. Anyway, once again, thank you so much for your continued support and for sticking around this whole time. I hope you enjoy!

Washington’s heart jumps a little when he catches a glimpse of aqua armor outside his door. There’s a thrilling split second reaction: shock, frustration, desperation, confusion. The smallest part of him briefly considers letting them pick up where they left off--starting with the part where Tucker was about to swallow him whole--but it’s quickly squashed by the bigger, smarter, more mature part of him. What the hell does Tucker think he’s doing? They can’t do this, especially if Tucker’s going to be this obvious about it. Does he really have such little subtlety that he’d come to Wash’s door at this hour? Anybody could easily see them together and start assuming things. He needs to leave, now.

And then Wash’s eyes adjust to the hallway lights and the lecture he had been preparing promptly dies in his throat.

“What are you doing here, Palomo?” he says instead. His voice feels foreign to his own ears; he can’t tell if he sounds tired, disappointed, or both.

Palomo hides something behind his back. As it is about four in the morning, Wash’s eyes are too slow to follow it. “Oh, hey, Wash! I mean,” he adds quickly when Wash raises an eyebrow at him, “Sergeant. I mean, Agent? You know, everyone calls you ‘agent,’ but you act like a coach, so I don’t really know what to call you.”

“Sir is just fine, private.” Wash eyes him up and down. “Why are you in full armor at this time of night? What are you hiding?”

“Whaaaat?” Palomo scoffs and makes a series of other unintelligible noises. “Hiding? I’m not hiding anything.”

Fortunately, sleeplessness doesn’t impede Washington’s ability to snatch whatever is behind Palomo’s back. Once he does, he inwardly wishes he had just gone back to bed. “Oh, for--did you graffiti my door?”

“What, no! I mean,” Palomo amends when Wash musters up a glare, “okay, it wasn’t as bad as all the other ones, but...we sort of did, yeah.”

“We?! Who’s we?”

“Uh… The royal ‘we’ is a thing, right?”

Having absolutely zero patience for this, Washington shoves Palomo aside and shouts down the hallway. “All of you come out now or I’m making everyone do five squats for every inch of graffiti I find! And I mean everyone!”

All at once, a handful of rebels come scrambling out of the woodwork, grumbling and reluctant. Their stealth would have been impressive in any other situation--any situation where they were actually using it to do something productive, that is. Now that Wash’s eyes have fully adjusted and he’s facing the wall where his door is, he can examine the damage in its full glory. There are some hastily spray-painted stick figures that stretch out across the wall and over Wash’s door, along with several attempts to draw a pile of poop and what appears to be an ugly unicorn. Washington orders the culprits to remove their helmets and is pained to find that he recognizes all of them, Palomo, Bitters, and Jensen among them. Even Smith is there, for God’s sake.

After memorizing their faces, Wash motions for them to toss their paint cans onto the floor, which they do with no small amount of hesitance and complaint. Then he makes them line up against the wall just because he can. He takes on the natural posture of military captain and marches down the line, hands behind his back, furious. Mostly furious, anyway. It’s hard to be that mad when he has been tossing and turning in bed all night, and some part of his mind still lingers on the memories that had been keeping him up: Tucker’s weight on top of him, his eyes dark and traveling slowly down his body...

Someone coughs. Wash can feel the rebels staring at him expectantly, waiting for the inevitable lecture. He tries to get one out, but his brain only manages to churn out unhelpful thoughts such as ‘I need sleep’ or ‘these lights are really bright’ or ‘Tucker has really grown into those calves.’

“What in the hell is goin’ on out here?!” Sarge bursts out of his room with a shotgun in hand, squaring his jaw in an attempt to look intimidating. The pinstriped nightgown isn’t doing him any favors. “Wash, what the hell’re you doin’, yellin’ this early in the mornin’?”

“Good morning, Sarge,” Washington says, grateful for the distraction. “It seems the rebels have been vandalizing federal dorms.” He gestures to the pool of paint cans on the floor.

Sarge comes over to inspect the evidence while Donut pops out of his room. He moves his eyemask up into his bleach blond hair and rubs his eyes. “You guys mind keeping it down? Some of us are trying to sleep, here.” Donut yawns and examines the walls. He smiles drowsily. “Ooh, I see what’s going on. Late night redecorating. I like it. Why didn’t you guys invite me?”

“Washingtub of lard,” Sarge reads off Wash’s door. He laughs shortly. “I give that one a three outta five.”

“Sarge, now’s not the time to…” Wash looks at him incredulously. “Really? A three? For that?”

“Sure. I give ‘em points for originality.”

“Originality? Oh, come on.”

Meanwhile, Donut steps out of his room to take a look at a giant mural scratched across his door. Tiny penises sprinkle a larger scene of a pink stick figure frolicking through the flowers. Donut hums. “I like the concept, but I’m not too sure about the color. I mean, come on, guys. Lightish red? Doesn’t anyone have mauveine around here?”

“Is he asking us for drugs?” Wash hears Jensen whisper.

Washington clears his throat. “Soldiers.” The rebels stand at attention. ‘Shaking in their armor,’ he’d say. He smirks, and then just for the hell of it, laughs. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Either way, he rolls with it. “Wow, you guys are _hilarious_. I must say, I’m impressed.”

The rebels exchange a few looks. “Wow, really?” says Palomo.

“Wait for it,” mutters Bitters.

“I can tell you guys put a lot of thought into this. I mean, fuck the consequences, right?” Wash continues. “Really, it takes a lot of guts and effort to get all this contraband into the base. And I imagine you must have spent a lot of time and money to get all these spray cans here. You know. Time and money that could’ve been spent fortifying the base, or making repairs, or buying new medical equipment… But I’m sure it must be worth it, right? To get the last laugh. To pull one over those pesky, evil Feds. I’m sure Kimball would agree. Wouldn’t she?”

Again, they exchange glances. Washington lets them squirm and whisper amongst each other this time.

“N-no?” Jensen volunteers eventually.

“No? I guess not.” Washington kicks one of the cans away. He lets it roll into someone else’s foot before continuing. “Well, I suppose she wouldn’t notice as long as the graffiti and spray cans disappeared. Whether or not she’ll notice the missing funds, well...maybe she will, maybe she won’t. That all depends on whether or not I’m in a sharing mood the next time I see her, I suppose.”

No one says anything. The air is tense with a collective held breath.

“Do you guys understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” comes the chorus of terrified rebels.

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” say the soldiers before promptly scattering, shouting orders at each other as they run. Several of them head off to grab buckets of water while the rest go for sponges. Their exit is significantly less graceful than their entrance, people tripping over their own feet and stumbling clumsily down the hall. Washington thinks he can hear some of them whimpering as they scamper away.

Wash waits until they’ve completely vacated the area before letting exhaustion flood him again. He slouches, scrubs his face, and sighs. “Children. I’m in charge of a bunch of children. With guns.” He looks at the Reds. “Sorry the noise woke you up. You guys alright?”

“Absolutely not! There is not a lick of originality in this one! They didn’t even spell my name right!” Sarge shouts at the Sergeant Doodoohead doodle scribbled in red. Donut merely studies the rest of the graffiti as if in serious contemplation of the color theory.

“What even constitutes originality for you? You know what, nevermind. I’m going to bed.”

Before Wash can re-enter his room, Donut snaps out of it long enough to coo, “Aww, are you all tuckered out after your evening with Tucker?” He giggles. “Ooh, I said tuckered.”

Heat rises to Wash’s cheeks. He tries to fight it down, but by then Sarge’s eyebrows are already traveling up his forehead. Donut remains blissfully unaware. “Stop. Whatever you’re thinking,” Wash says slowly, “just stop.”

“What do you think I’m thinking?” Sarge says warily.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Just...stop thinking it. Please.”

“And what, may I ask, do you not want me thinkin’? Is it that you and Tuck--?”

“No.”

“So you’re not, uh… What’s that word Grif uses for sex?”

“I said no, Sarge.”

“Boning? Is that it?”

“No!”

“Really? I could’a sworn that--”

“Tucker and I are not having sex, Sarge! End of discussion!”

There’s a moment where Wash thinks he might have actually gotten through to him. Then, Sarge claps a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “Listen, son,” he says in a much more sober voice than is necessary for this absolutely ridiculous conversation, “I don’t judge.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Wash says flatly.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have a team,” Sarge continues, undeterred. “Seriously. Just look at them. Especially Donut.”

“What about me, Sarge?” Donut chirps.

Sarge looks him up and down. “Just...look at you.”

“Huh? Wait, what are we talking about again?”

“At the end of the day, I don’t care if you’re sleeping with Tucker or Caboose or even Grif,” Sarge rambles on. “I mean, if it was Grif, I might question your sense of sight. And hearing. And your sense of smell. Basically I’d question your entire judgment in character.”

“Sarge.”

“The point is, you don’t have to lie to me or Donut or anybody.”

“I’m not lying. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? I thought you guys were training!” Donut interjects.

Wash sighs and scrubs his face. Sometimes talking to his friends feels like walking in a circle. “Look, you guys, just... We can talk about this tomorrow. Or never, I don’t care. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

With that, Wash retreats back into his room and buries himself in his bed. He closes his eyes and squeezes the too-warm pillow beneath him, but now there are _two_ things rattling around in his head: the dread of having to deal with the aftermath of this graffiti mess, and Tucker. Tucker and the sweat sticking to his shirt; the heat radiating off him; the pink slip of tongue that ran over his lower lip when Wash’s voice cracked...

He lives through an hour of that, flipping back and forth between war politics and sex, before finally his alarm goes off.

***

Grif and Simmons swear up and down that they didn’t know anything about the rebels’ graffiti prank. They even seem to take it personally that they weren’t in the know.

“Why would they let you in on a prank they pulled on your own friends?” Washington asks, too tired to recognize that he’s enabling what is bound to be a ridiculous conversation.

“Why _wouldn’t_ they let us in on a prank on our own friends?” Simmons counters, hurt. “We’re hip! We’ve got a great sense of humor!”

Grif snorts. “We definitely would’ve come up with something better than ‘Washingtub of lard.’ I’d give that one a three out of ten.”

Simmons looks at him. “Really? A three? I’d say that’s generous.”

Washington sighs. “You two should be taking this more seriously. As captains, you guys have a lot more sway in the rebel camp. You should be using it to keep things mellow among the troops.”

“Yeah, ‘cause drawing dicks all over the walls definitely means mutiny,” Grif quips. “Come on, Wash, it was just a joke.”

“I have to agree with Grif on this one. A little thing like that seems pretty harmless. I mean, Grif and Donut used to vandalize my quarters all the time back at Blood Gulch, and I haven’t murdered them, yet.” Simmons looks at the two of them pointedly. “ _Yet_.”

Donut squawks incredulously. “What! I’ve never vandalized your room, Simmons!”

“Yes, you did! I came in one day and found your smelly dust all over the place!”

“You mean my special cleaning powder?”

“Why would you need to use cleaning powder on my room? My room is the cleanest in the entire base!”

“Really? Because it always smelled too much like Windex to me.”

Simmons then proceeds to make a series of offended noises until finally Wash cuts in. “This isn’t the same as Blood Gulch,” he says abruptly. “One: We don’t have the time to deal with a prank war. Two: You guys don’t have the same history as these people do. This planet has been at war for years; feds have lost friends and family to the rebels and vice versa. And three: Even at Blood Gulch, didn’t you guys have to put a hold on your bickering to fight a common enemy? Do you really think a practical joke would’ve been appropriate at the time?”

“It would’ve been funny, I’ll tell you that much,” Grif mutters.

“If we don’t get full cooperation from both sides of this conflict,” Wash continues, “an entire planet could die. Do you understand?”

The Reds churn out a reluctant ‘yes.’

“Good. So will you talk to them?”

Grif and Simmons groan out another ‘yes.’ After a moment, Simmons timidly adds, “sir.”

“Great. Now--”

“Oh, wait!” Donut raises his hand. “You never told me how your evening with Tucker went. Did you guys use protection?”

Grif snickers into his fist. Wash, for his part, remains absolutely composed. “Come again?” he says evenly. He just barely hears Grif muttering a dirty pun on ‘come’ and laughing to himself about it.

Donut shrugs. “I mean, you _had_ to have used protection, right? Unless you wanted it rough.”

Grif’s laughter intensifies. This time, Wash can’t contain the blush. Rough, indeed, he thinks. Nevertheless, he realizes that Donut won’t stop until he gets a sufficient answer. “It, we...yes. We used ‘protection.’ As in, mouthguards. We wore mouthguards,” Washington replies with more awkwardness than he had hoped.

“Now, if there aren’t any other questions…” He trails off. Grif is raising his hand. “Anyone? No? Great. So--”

“I have a question,” Grif interrupts, not waiting for Wash to respond. “Which one of you’s sore from doing it?”

“Grif.”

“Oh, it has to be Tucker!” Donut chimes in.

Grif nods. “Oh, of course, definitely.”

“ _Grif_ ,” Wash repeats. Donut really doesn’t need any encouragement. Ever.

“I mean, after all,” Donut rambles on, “Agent Washington _is_ the bigger of the two.”

“Totally,” Grif says with the smuggest smirk in his voice.

“Did someone say jumping jacks?” Wash says loudly. That shuts them up quickly. “Grif...it sounds like you just said jumping jacks.”

“Uh, nope. Wasn’t me.”

“Oh, I think it was.”

“That was a terrible impression. Didn’t even sound like me.”

“Alright then, fifty jumping jacks. All of you. Now.”

They do it and actually survive all fifty, including Grif. It’s not until Grif comes out the other side of the obstacle course and collapses that Washington feels Grif stop smirking at him.

***

Wash repeats the same lecture about five times before lunch, reprimanding the rebels and cautioning the feds not to retaliate. For the most part, his words go in one ear and out the other; the rebels throw up middle fingers when they think he’s not looking while the feds protest that he should be on their side. That along with the fact that he keeps losing track of how many laps people have done and slipping up on their times makes for a rather stressful morning.

He’s half-seriously contemplating a quick nap on the floor when he catches the tail end of a hushed conversation. The Feds are gathered in a cluster at the exit of the obstacle course, waiting for their colleague to emerge, and Wash is on his way back after examining one of the traps. Apparently Caboose broke it during his first session with Carolina yesterday. Wash can’t really judge. At least Carolina didn’t almost fuck him.

“Which one of them do you think it is?” one of the lieutenants is saying when Wash is seemingly out of earshot.

“Oh, I don’t know. One of the captains, isn’t it?”

“What, you think Agent Washington would sleep with one of _those_ guys?” Wash freezes where he is. After a split second’s shock, he pretends to notice something on his clipboard and scribbles gibberish onto Caboose’s old sheet.

“Maybe the green one. He’s got half a brain, at least.”

“Man, that guy is one half brain one half boner.”

“Who cares about brains? Have you seen that thin mint without his helmet? Mm. No wonder Agent Washington’s always taking the rebels’ side. I’d betray us, too, if I had that guy in my bed every night.”

At this point, Washington decides he has heard enough. A hush falls over the feds as soon as he walks over; they’re barely even looking at each other. Part of Wash is a bit hurt. He thought the feds trusted him more than this, at least enough to know that if he’s on any side, it’s theirs. Mostly, he just can’t wait to get his hands on Grif for starting all this.

By noon, Wash has prepared the most extensive lecture on professionalism and gossip in the workplace he has ever given in all his time being stuck with these idiots. He finds it cathartic to run through it in his head, over and over again, letting the anger and adrenaline keep him wide awake. Somewhere in there, he realizes that he’ll need to have a talk with Tucker, too. They need to put the rumors to rest, once and for all, for the sake of their reputations and for the sake of the entire army. The last thing they need is to give the troops more reason to question Wash’s authority, or even Tucker’s. There needs to be nothing between them but friendship. Period.

Washington is thus fully preoccupied with this train of thought when he runs into Carolina, on her way to the war room no doubt. The sight of her shakes him a little. He has never been that good at lying to her; she’ll probably figure out what happened with Tucker just by looking at him.

“Hey,” he says, and even that sounds unnatural to his own ears. Carolina just nods stiffly. “You heading into a meeting?”

“Just stopping by the war room to ask Kimball something,” she answers.

“I see.”

There’s an awkward silence than neither of them know what to do with, which perplexes him. Is she waiting for him to say something?

“So,” he says experimentally, and just because he can’t think of anything else right now, he asks, “How was training yesterday?”

“Fine,” Carolina replies; too immediately for it to be the truth. She pauses. “Great. Everything was...great. How was Tucker?”

“Not bad,” Washington replies slowly. He had been trying to play it cool, but the slight high pitch in his voice earns him an odd look, so he hastily adds, “I mean, he did well for the first session. Still a bit green, but...he’s getting there.”

“Sounds like you’re making real progress,” Carolina comments, which sounds just smug enough to be code for ‘I know you're hiding something.’

“Yeah. I’m glad you and Caboose are getting along well, too,” Wash responds with the same amount of smugness.

“Uh huh.”

“Yep.”

They walk in complete silence for about ten seconds before Church pops up on her shoulder. “Man, yesterday was hilarious. You should’ve been there; Carolina--”

“Thank you, Epsilon,” Carolina says loudly, swatting at him like a bug.

There’s a smirk in Church’s voice. “You know that doesn’t work.”

“Then just shut up.”

“No, go on,” Wash insists. “I’m in the mood for a funny story.”

Before anyone can get another word out, the war room door slides open and out come two very familiar aquamarine rebels. Palomo doesn’t watch where he’s going and runs right into Carolina. Tucker, for his part, notices Wash in an instant and freezes where he stands. The helmet gives Wash way too much room to imagine where Tucker’s eyes are, what his face is like. Judging by the immense awkward tension in the air, Tucker probably isn’t looking at him the same way he did yesterday. Wash is somewhat relieved by this; he doesn’t know if he can stand another second with Lavernius “Sex Eyes” Tucker.

A cough from Carolina brings Washington back to reality. He clears his throat. “Good afternoon, Captain. Private,” he adds with a nod at Palomo.

Tucker waves awkwardly. “Uh, hey. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for Kimball. Is she in there?” Carolina nods at the doorway behind them.

“Yeah. She is,” Tucker responds more sourly than expected. Washington briefly wonders if this is about the failed mission earlier this week. He just as quickly dismisses the idea; that mission is old news by now. It must be about something else, then, but what? And why bring Palomo into it?

“Alright.” Carolina looks at Wash. “We’ll talk later.” Washington is startled to hear a grin, barely perceptible but present, in Carolina’s voice. He panics for a split second--has she figured it out _already_?--but elects to ignore it for now.

Once Carolina has disappeared into the war room, Palomo wastes no time in making his escape. “Well, good talk. I’m gonna go, uh...do something else. Bye.”

With that, Palomo dodges Tucker’s attempt to yank him back in and hightails it out of there, ignoring Tucker’s shout of protest as he rounds the corner. This, finally, leaves Wash alone with Tucker. Standing alone in the middle of a deserted hall.

“If you guys are about to fuck in the middle of the hallway,” Wash remembers Carolina saying, “you could at least wait until it’s empty.”

The silence rings heavy in their ears.

“We need to talk,” Wash says at the same time Tucker says, “You want to talk about it, don’t you?” Tucker then adds, “Yep. Saw that one coming.”

Washington sighs. “Listen, Tucker--”

Tucker interrupts him with an uncomfortable groan. “Dude, I know what you’re going to say, and I know why you want to say it, but could we not?”

“Wh… How could you possibly know what I’m about to say?” Wash says, a little irritated. He didn’t stay up all night worrying about this just for Tucker to be a stubborn brat. “No, really, go ahead. Tell me. What do you think I want to say to you?”

“Well, don’t make _me_ say it!”

“So you want neither of us to talk about it?”

“Yes! Exactly!”

“Tucker,” Washington growls warningly.

Tucker draws out a long sigh. “Fine, whatever. Go ahead. Let’s get this over with.”

Washington draws himself up with a deep breath. He’s not sure why he feels anxious, but he does. “Listen, Tucker... I’ve been hearing a lot of rumors around the base, lately, and none of them have put us in the best light. But as their leaders, we need to maintain their respect. So right now, I think it’s best if we forget what happened yesterday and just move on. I know it may sound hard, but it’d be even harder to go about our daily lives if we had to keep sneaking around behind Kimball and Doyle and the entire army’s backs just to--”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” Tucker says suddenly. Wash can already tell he stopped listening at some point and is fully prepared to start again from the top, but Tucker keeps going. “So basically, what you’re saying is that we should just never talk about yesterday ever again.”

“Well...yes, that’s part of it.”

“And just. Never acknowledge it happened. To anyone. Ever.”

“That’s part of it, too.”

Tucker releases a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God. That, I can do.”

Washington frowns. “What, that’s it?” he says, feeling slightly offended. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even know what he was expecting out of this conversation.

“Yep! Time to not talk about it again for the rest of our lives. Whew.”

“Wait, what exactly did you think I was going to--?”

“Starting now.”

“But I--”

“Three-two-one-go!” Tucker takes off in a random direction. “See you at training, Wash!”

Washington stares after him, completely and utterly speechless. He’s not sure what just happened. He’s not even sure that whatever just happened was a _good_ thing.

Maybe Tucker realized how big a mistake it would’ve been, he muses. Maybe he’s just attracted to Wash’s body; not his...everything else. It makes sense. It would make less sense, in fact, if Tucker was interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with him. After all, Tucker has always thought things through with his dick. At least this time he had the common sense to let his brain intervene. That’s a sign of progress.

Either way, it all worked out in the end, Wash figures. Everything will be fine.

He skips exercising to take a nap in his room and doesn’t dream of anything, including Tucker.

***

According to Carolina, Washington has a type. He always falls for the sarcastic ones, she says. Quick-witted, smart-mouthed, always has to get in the last word. He could flirt for hours with them, and he wouldn’t be able to wipe the grin off his face for hours afterwards. He likes the back-and-forth, the tension, the subtlety, but what he loves the most is tearing down the walls they build with humor and finding something real and special. He thinks that this is perhaps a smidge romanticized, but, sure, he likes all those things. However, he still couldn’t figure out what any of that had to do with Tucker until she spelled it out for him.

“You. Green guy. Sexual tension. Not conducive to learning.” Carolina had never been the type to beat around the bush.

It took Wash a full five seconds before the laughter started bubbling forward. He had to take a moment to rein it in. “Oh no,” he said, almost losing it, “no, no, not at all. You really think I have a crush? On _Tucker_? Aren’t we a bit old for locker room gossip?”

“So you’re saying you feel no attraction to him whatsoever.”

“Yes, that is what I’m saying. God, you are way off the mark.”

“Wash, you flirt with him all the time. You were flirting with him when I walked in!”

“That’s not flirting. That’s just banter.”

“Flirty banter, whatever.”

“You just don’t know how these guys work, boss. Tucker’s personality is ninety-nine percent humor. How else am I supposed to talk to him?”

“You could start by keeping your dick in your pants.”

Wash rolled his eyes. He knew she couldn’t see him doing it, but really, how could he not? “Don’t be ridiculous. What you’re seeing isn’t a sign of some kind of weird sexual tension; it’s a sign that we work well together. As a...mentor and student,” he added quickly.

Carolina sighed. “Wash. Just let me train him. Even if you don’t believe me, you have an entire army to train! At least I have more time on my hands.”

“I only train several small groups in the morning. My afternoons are free. Besides, I’m the only one who can do this; Tucker trusts me much more than he trusts you.”

“Gee, Wash, I didn’t realize this was a competition.”

“You know what I mean!” Washington snapped, finally getting irritated. She was just being willfully obtuse at this point. “You know how stubborn he is. It’s better to let me handle him. I have the experience.”

“Oh, fine,” Carolina said, throwing up her hands. “Do what you want. But if there is a problem, you _need_ to transfer him to me. Understand?”

Perhaps because he had been spending too much time around Grif, Washington replied, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to report directly to you if Tucker trips and falls on my dick.”

***

Washington runs straight into Carolina on his way down the hall. The impact is especially painful considering she’s still in her armor; it knocks him onto the ground, whereas she remains standing but clearly pissed and on a mission.

“Wash? I thought you were with Tucker.” It’s not an accusation; it’s barely even a question. Her eyes are moving across the hall like she’s only half present in this conversation.

“I thought you were with Caboose,” he rejoins. He rubs his chest where her shoulder jabbed him. “I’m fine, by the way.”

Carolina rolls her eyes and picks him up off the floor. Before Wash can regain his balance completely, she marches off in the other direction. He follows. “Why are you still in your armor?”

“We use it during training.”

“You train in full body armor? Shouldn’t you start off a bit lighter than that, work your way up from there?”

“It’s for safety.”

Wash can’t help but gape at her. “Christ, what kind of training have you been putting him through?”

“ _My_ safety,” Carolina amends grudgingly.

After a moment, Church pops up on her shoulder. “He broke her nose yesterday.”

Washington squints at her face. “Oh, yeah. Now I see it.”

“You have to admit, Dr. Grey did a pretty good job fixing it,” Church says placatingly, and if Church is trying to calm her down instead of sitting back with a bag of digital popcorn, that must mean it’s really bad.

Carolina rounds a sharp corner. Wash struggles to keep up.

“Aren’t we headed in the opposite direction of the training room?” he asks over the squeak of his sneakers scuffing up the floor. “I thought that’s where you guys are supposed to meet.”

A pause. “He wasn’t there,” she says reluctantly, as if the admission physically pains her. When Washington doesn’t say anything, she looks at him. “Tucker didn’t show up either, did he?”

Now it’s Wash’s turn to frown. “No. He didn’t.”

Carolina refocuses on the path ahead, balling her fists. “I asked around. Apparently the rebel captains are having a few beers in Donut’s room.”

The thought of Tucker cracking open a beer while Wash waited for him like an idiot admittedly hurts him a little. He squares his jaw. “I suppose we should join them, then.”

“Yeah. We should.”

“Okay, you guys are way too pissed off about this,” Church says.

“Fuck off,” Carolina says about the same time Wash tells him to shut up.

They arrive at Donut’s room shortly, his door decorated with what seems like a more artistic rendering of the previous night’s graffiti. The pinkish color, Wash can only assume, is mauveine. It takes four knocks--or rather, punches--before somebody answers the door. Simmons shrinks back, significantly smaller without his armor, especially compared to Carolina’s giant, looming figure.

“Where is he?” she demands.

“He? He who?” Simmons gulps and flashes a nervous grin. “The only ‘he’s here are me, Grif, Donut, and Tuck…” He notices Wash behind her and coughs. “I mean, not Tucker. Tucker? Pff. That guy. Haven’t seen him all day. Sir.”

Carolina shoves her way past him and enters the room, Washington following not far behind. Donut’s room is surprisingly organized, for all its useless clutter. It’s also surprisingly less pink than Wash had expected.

“You guys want a beer?” Donut chirps, holding out two fresh cans. “I swear, I have way more of these than I know what to do with. I found these stacked up inside this mini fridge the last guy left here, but I’m kind of more of a wine guy, you know?”

“And to think, all this beer almost went to waste,” Grif says with a burp from his corner of the room. Crushed cans litter the floor around him. “Thank God we showed up when we did.”

Simmons busily picks up Grif’s trash while Carolina lifts the bed singlehandedly. There’s nothing but an assortment of seed packets. “Oh, I forgot about those! Still have to work on finding a place for my organic garden,” says Donut.

Washington hears a noise from the closet, followed by a muffled whisper. He knocks on the door. After a pause, someone knocks back.

“Caboose,” says Wash.

“Yes,” says Caboose, muffled by the door.

“Get out of the closet,” says Wash.

“What’s the magic word?” sing-songs Caboose.

“ _Now_ ,” Carolina booms. She lets the bed fall back onto the floor with a clatter that vibrates through the room.

Caboose scoffs. “ _That’s_ not the--”

“Dude, just open the door!” Tucker snaps.

“Okay, okay! Yeesh.”

And then out spill two Blues onto the floor. Tucker immediately gets crushed underneath Caboose, who is in full armor save for his helmet. “I can’t breathe,” Tucker wheezes out. Washington tugs him out by the arms and allows him a moment to catch his breath. “Thanks… So, how dead am I?”

“Caboose,” Carolina says before Wash can answer him. “Why didn’t you show up for training?”

Caboose rises from the floor. “Uhh, well, you see…” he says very slowly. “I, um. I forgot.”

“You forgot.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Then here’s a reminder: Training started thirty minutes ago.”

“Ohhh! Right. Now I remember.”

“Great. So let’s go.” Caboose doesn’t move. “I said let’s go.” Again, nothing. “Caboose.”

“Yes, Agent Carolina?”

“Why aren’t you moving?”

“Well, I, you see, I, um... I am scared. Of you. You’re a...scary lady.” When Carolina doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, he goes on. “And, now, that--that’s not a bad thing, but it is a thing that makes me not want to train with you. A little bit. Sort of. Really. A lot.”

When it becomes clear that Caboose has nothing else to add, Carolina speaks. “I see,” is all she has to say.

After a while, Caboose adds, “I’d like to train with Agent Washington instead, if that’s okay with you.”

For all her bluster and wrath, Wash can tell she’s a little hurt by this, even if she saw it coming. Washington exchanges a look with Tucker. “Do you want to yell at me outside, or…?” Tucker mutters to him, apparently picking up on the tension in the air.

“I think that’d be best, yes,” Wash mutters back. The two of them manage to awkwardly work their way out of the room, which is eerily quiet when the door slides shut behind them.

Once they’re alone, Tucker sighs. “Okay. Look. I can explain.”

Wash holds up a hand. “No, there’s no need. You’re not in trouble.”

Tucker knits his eyebrows together, confused. “I’m not?”

“No. It’s...” Washington hesitates, then sighs as well. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have volunteered to train you. Clearly I’ve made things...awkward between us. It’s best if I switch with Carolina.”

Something shifts in Tucker’s expression. “Wait, what? Dude…”

“Don’t look at it like a punishment. Carolina’s not that bad; Caboose just happens to bring out the worst in her,” Wash says gently. “I mean, we all had to see that coming from a mile away.”

“It’s not that,” Tucker says, frowning. His eyes are searching Wash’s. “I don’t care about training. I care about us.”

Of all the blushes Washington has experienced today, this one takes the cake. Tucker is quick to add, “Whoa, okay, not like that. I meant, like, you and me.”

“That is what the word ‘us’ means,” Washington observes.

“I meant our friendship, dipshit!” Tucker says, clearly embarrassed. “I don’t want things to be weird between us just because that...weird stuff happened.”

Wash nods. “I know. I don’t want it to be weird, either. And I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable when you’re around me.”

“Aw, Wash, I don’t…” Washington raises an eyebrow at him. Tucker coughs. “Okay, fine. It’s a little uncomfortable. But not because of you. It’s just that I…I’m still not really sure what happened yesterday.”

“What do you mean you’re not…?” Wash can’t even finish his thought, he’s so confused. “What don’t you understand?”

“Everything! I literally understand nothing. How the hell did--” Tucker stops short, as if choking on his own words. His embarrassment is sort of adorable, Washington thinks, not to mention completely shocking considering his behavior yesterday. “-- _that_ end up… I mean, how did _we_ end up…?”

Once Tucker’s words have finally dried up, Washington takes pity on him. “How did we end up in a situation like that?” Tucker nods, uncharacteristically mute. He’s staring at Wash’s shoes. Wash shrugs. “I don’t know. Does it really matter?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve never lost control of myself like that before,” Tucker explains, and Wash can tell by the strained look on his face that it takes a tremendous amount of effort to admit this. “It freaked me out. I don’t know if it was some kind of weird repressed thing, or if all the gay jokes just got to my head, or--or if I got possessed by some alien again, or--”

“So you’re not sure if what you felt was real attraction or not, and it’s confusing you,” Washington interrupts. “And on top of that, you don’t want whatever this is to ruin our friendship.”

Tucker rubs his shoulder self-consciously. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Washington makes a thoughtful noise. “Well...I’m not sure I can help you there. My first experience crushing on a guy was a lot less, uh, existential. Mostly I was just surprised.”

Tucker’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Wait, you’ve been with guys before?”

“Not many,” Wash replies before Tucker can get any ideas in his head. He’d hate for Tucker to think he was some kind of gay sex expert when he’s only been with a man three times in his entire life. “But a few. Yes.”

And now Tucker is staring at him like he’s an entirely new creature. Washington squirms under the attention and coughs. “Anyway, if it’s our friendship you’re worried about, don’t. What happened yesterday...definitely happened. But it doesn’t have to change anything unless you want it to.”

Tucker nods slowly, still looking rather deep in thought. “Right…so...we’re cool?”

Washington hums. “Well...you’re still making up for tonight’s training session tomorrow, but, yes. We’re cool.”

Tucker groans, which is sort of a relief. Awkward, bashful Tucker is kind of new and unusual. “You just said I wasn’t in trouble!”

“You’re not in trouble. You just have some catching up to do.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Washington is in the middle of deciding whether or not he _is_ kidding, actually, when the door slides open again. Carolina emerges calmly, followed closely by Caboose.

It takes a moment for Wash to formulate words. “Hey, Caboose, did you still want to--?”

“I can’t talk right now, Agent Washington,” Caboose says apologetically. “I gotta go train with Carolina.”

Wash catches a glimpse of Carolina’s smile as she leads the way. He and Tucker exchange a look.

“You think they almost made out, too?”

“Jesus Christ, Tucker, what is wrong with you?”

***

It’s not often that Agent Washington is at a complete loss for words. As a Freelancer and now the unofficial babysitter of the Blood Gulch crew, there isn’t much in the world that can surprise or astonish him. He worked with the Meta for a pretty long time, and that guy has done some disturbing things to people he doesn’t like.

This, however. This is just the right amount of stupid and impressive to leave him speechless.

A long line of burnt and perforated cones splits the heart of the base in half, some of them even hanging from the ceiling. The cones are strung together by a rope and some neon yellow caution tape. Painted in large, sweeping strokes upon the floor in front of them: STAY ON YOUR SIDE OF BASE, NEW REDUMBLIC!

After a moment, Tucker looks at him and shrugs. “I mean. You found your cones.”


	5. Lesson Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tucker has a few questions and gets a few answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Again, I am so, so sorry for the delay. I crammed a lot of plot developments into this chapter, so it is significantly longer than usual, but it is also a bit less quality/a bit more rushed than usual, and for that I apologize. I could give you about a thousand excuses right now, but the bottom line is that I am just excited to get this chapter out and, as always, I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. I am expecting maybe two more chapters after this one, and hopefully they will be coming out roughly once a month. Thanks so much for the lovely comments! I hope you enjoy!

The feds take their time loading onto the warthog, shoving supplies into the back with more strength than necessary and muttering amongst themselves. Tucker is also pretty sure they’re flipping him off behind his back, and really, since when did _he_ become the hardass leader everyone kind of hated?

It has only been about twelve hours since he and Agent Washington reported the mess of cones and graffiti to Doyle, and already Tucker has noticed a significant change in how the feds treat him. They redirected him through three different departments before he could even get a permit to sign out a warthog, and then it took another four to get someone to notarize it. Now they’re tormenting him by counting and recounting the supplies for a simple intel-gathering mission, and really, Tucker thinks, what kind of boring-ass pranksters use paperwork to torment their victims?

He can just imagine how much worse this would’ve been if the rebels’ graffiti had been found before they erased it. He had heard news of it from Kimball, who found Palomo hastily trying to erase something outside Doyle’s quarters. She had then proceeded to drag him and Tucker into the war room to privately reprimand them about the rebels’ conduct, a conversation that ultimately ended with her using Palomo to spy on their next prank plan. It was an awful idea if only because Palomo had the subtlety of a neon blinking sign; it was also just flat-out ridiculous to try to spy on one’s own army, a point that Kimball did not receive well.

“This is not up for discussion, you two,” she had said darkly. “Now, do you understand your orders?”

“I understand that they’re kind of bullshit, yeah,” Tucker had muttered. Kimball had then stared him down until finally he sighed and added, “Whatever. Yeah. I got it.”

The mission they’re on today is trivial enough for Tucker and Sarge to lead the mission without any supervision from Carolina, but Tucker knows how bad things can go if there isn’t enough cooperation. He gives this warning to the privates before sending them off to keep a lookout, but they still openly argue with each other and elbow each other aside when they think he isn’t looking.

“Ugh, I fucking hate those guys,” Tucker mutters into the radio. Sarge merely answers with a distracted ‘uh-huh’ as they don their cloaking devices and tiptoe on into the facility.

“It’s like everything I say goes in one ear and out the other!”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they always come whining to me like ‘Captain Tucker, the feds took all the good lookout spots!’, ‘Captain Tucker, the feds ate the last pudding pop!’, ‘Captain Tucker, the feds totally stink!’ Who cares?”

“Yeeep.”

“I had to share a cramped space with the world’s most sarcastic AI and a blue man-child for years and I never complained half as much as these guys do.”

“That’s true.”

Tucker simmers in his irritation for about five whole seconds before Sarge opens his mouth again.

“So… I heard you and Wash have been bumpin’ uglies.”

Tucker stops in place. For a minute he considers that maybe Sarge is talking on the wrong radio frequency again, but then he continues.

“Makin’ a, uh...cloudy...turquoise or somethin’.”

Tucker then considers that maybe he’ll just shut up if he ignores him long enough.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No!” comes the immediate answer, just loud enough to alert one of the guards standing by. Tucker lowers his voice and carefully shimmies out of harm’s way. He whispers, “No. Fuck off.”

“You sure?”

“I’m going up ahead.”

“Suit yourself.”

Tucker crawls his way to the other end of the room, away from Sarge’s general direction and past some bored-looking pirates. Now that he thinks of it, what with the cones debacle and the abrupt new mission, there hasn’t been any room to ruminate on the whole bicuriosity thing. He has always found Wash attractive, sure, and he has even had similar thoughts about other men before: the breadth of their shoulders, the rough skin, the taut muscles clenching with every bit of effort. But those feelings had never actually amounted to anything, not the way it did when he pinned Wash to the floor and thought about a million confusing things at once. And those feelings had never been toward someone he actually gave a shit about until now.

What’s the point in dwelling on it now, anyway? Tucker thinks as he pops a data chip into the computer and waits. Wash made it perfectly clear that they can’t do anything about any of the tension between them, and anyway, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who messes around. If they start _anything_ , it will probably end up being way more serious than Tucker is ready for, and then he’ll have to hurt Wash, and then everything will be awkward. But it’s not like he can just ignore his giant boner for one of his closest friends, either.

Tucker gets a notification from his helmet signaling the end of the download. So is the beauty of new technology; the download window doesn’t pop up on the actual monitor at all. He plucks the chip from the computer and asks the privates for a status report.

“Uh, not good! I think they’ve spotted us!” Palomo yelps.

Tucker struggles to keep his voice down with all the violence blasting off in his ears. “How many of them are there?”

“Kiiind of a looot…”

“For fuck’s sake, Palomo!” Tucker hisses in a whisper. He turns to--right. Cloaking devices. He can’t figure out where Sarge is. “We need to go! Now!” he says into the radio, and off they go.

There’s a hail fire of bullets coming down on the privates when Sarge and Tucker emerge from the facility. A couple of them have already been wounded and struggle to reach for cover. “Guys, in the warthog! Now!” Tucker yells.

The privates flee without hesitation, Sarge and Tucker covering their escape. Eventually, Tucker signals for Sarge to get in the warthog, too, which he does with a nod and a few more shots at the enemy. As soon as Sarge is out of range, Tucker struggles to pick a bomb off his belt and tosses it at the crowd of pirates in the distance. Something strange ripples through him and knocks him off balance, and by the time he has recovered, one of the pirates has caught the bomb in his hand. The bomb merely blinks, completely intact.

“Oh, come on! Every time!” is what Tucker tries to say before the complaint shrivels up in his throat.

In the distance, the soldier who caught Tucker’s bomb gradually begins to change. A burst of orange spreads out from his helmet all the way down to his toes, bright and obnoxious and unmistakably familiar. His posture transforms along with the color, taking on Grif’s signature haphazard slouch, his apathetic stance. Before Tucker can make sense of all this, one of the pirates next to the lookalike takes notice and immediately shoves him onto the ground, keeping him under their foot.

“We have an intruder!”

“Wait, guys! Stop! It’s me!” says Grif, and the worst part is, it actually _sounds_ like him: the cadence, the rhythm, the sharp crack in his voice. Something in the way he squirms and struggles is eerily similar, too, which makes it all the more horrifying when the pirate brings out his rifle and shoots him in the head in one fluid motion. Grif’s body goes unnervingly still. Then, the blood. Then, a swift kick in the stomach, causing him to roll down the hill and land at Tucker’s feet.

Tucker has to fight down the urge to hurl, and suddenly his legs feel boneless. Then Palomo is calling for him, and the orange is draining from the pirate’s armor, and someone is dragging Tucker onto the warthog, gripping his arms tightly. Tucker finds it hard to rip his eyes away as a pool of blood spreads out from under the pirate’s shiny orange head, spilling all over the grass. He can’t stop until the orange is completely drained from the enemy’s armor, until all that’s left is uniform black, until he’s _sure_ it isn’t Grif that just got murdered before his eyes, and even then, he isn’t a hundred percent sold.

Tucker is still shaking on the way back. He doesn’t stop for a while.

“That son of a bitch Grif packed a dud, didn’t he?” Sarge clicks his tongue. “Just wait until I get my hands on him. Bastard.”

***

The first thing Tucker does after being released from the war room is head straight into the armory to check on Grif. He doesn’t even need to get within five feet of the place to hear Grif arguing with Simmons over whose turn it is to retrieve Lopez from under the Pelican, allowing a long line of people to stretch out from the counter.

“You know what happened the last time I helped put Lopez back together? He tried to fucking strangle me, that’s what!” Grif shouts over the disgruntled buzz of the soldiers.

“Well _maybe_ you need to start working on your bedside manner,” Simmons replies matter-of-factly.

“Oh, no, you’re right. I should be _way_ more careful with the two-hundred pound pile of metal jammed inside a fucking machine.”

The two of them go on like that for a while, oblivious to the simmering unrest in the room. From this distance, this Grif looks about the same as the Grif from the mission, but there’s something about this one that feels more authentic, more orange and lazy and loud and obnoxious. There’s something almost embarrassing about the wave of relief that comes over Tucker as the fight escalates.

“Can we get our weapons now, please?” Jensen calls out from halfway down the line. This causes a commotion of agreement among the soldiers, which Tucker takes as his cue to leave.

Tucker didn’t mention it in the mission report because he doesn’t want Kimball to worry, or worse, ban him from being out in the field indefinitely. He doesn’t mention it to Wash or Carolina for the same reason; plus, he’s pretty sure they would try to delve into some deep psychological shit that he is just not prepared for. Most of the reds and blues probably wouldn’t even know what to say, if only because they’re all dealing with their own repressed crap and hardly even know how to handle that much. That ultimately leaves him with Church: ever-sarcastic, ever-exhausted, ever-angry-with-the-world Church, who has definitely seen his fair share of shit and is a lot less likely to throw a pity party for him.

So, no, Tucker hadn’t expected Church to be all comfort hugs and consolation when he told him what he saw on his latest mission. But he definitely hadn’t expected him to say “uh” for the span of a full minute, either.

“Now’s really not the time to start glitching on me, dude,” Tucker says somewhat nervously, knowing fully well that this isn’t a glitch but hoping Church will get so annoyed he snaps out of it.

No such luck. “No, I just. Uh.” Church coughs.

“What!”

“Nothing! Jesus, chill out.”

“Chill out? How the hell am I supposed to chill out when I’m having fucking hallucinations on the battlefield!” Before Church can go on another long “uh,” Tucker goes on. “I mean, seriously! I thought I saw a space pirate turn into Grif! Like, full-on transformation and shit!”

“Maybe it was just a, uh, you know. Trick of the light or something.”

“Dude. Don’t use your high-pitched lying voice on me.”

“I don’t sound like that when I’m lying!”

“There it is again!”

Tucker collapses onto a nearby crate and buries his face in his hands, sighing. “Ugh, forget it. I don’t even know why I told you about this in the first place.”

“Hey, come on. Don’t be such a drama queen,” Church says in a much more Church-y voice, which is comforting in itself. Tucker picks his head up to glare at him, but now Church is the one avoiding his eyes. He lets out a long sigh. “You said you threw a bomb at this guy, right?”

Tucker has to suppress an involuntary shiver. “Uh, yeah... And he turned into Grif as soon as it hit him.”

“And did you happen to notice anything weird when you grabbed the bomb?” Church continues calmly.

It takes a moment, but he remembers. “Kinda? I mean, it was only for a second, but something definitely felt...heavier.”

“Like you’d gained a few extra pounds?”

“I don’t know, that’s kind of a weird way to describe it.”

“Okay, well... I think I know what happened,” Church says, and Tucker braces himself for some uncomfortably astute psychoanalysis computer-y shit. Sometimes Church knows so much it’s kind of scary. “I mean, maybe what you saw really was a figment of your imagination. Who knows? _But,_ I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. My guess is, that wasn’t a bomb. Technically speaking, at least.” Tucker stares and waits for him to make sense. “It was a grifball.”

“Wait, _what_?!” Tucker says loud enough for Carolina to stop hitting a training dummy and look over at them.

“We’re fine!” Church says to her while Tucker takes a moment to process. Carolina narrows her eyes like she doesn’t believe him, but continues training nonetheless.

After a moment’s wavering between incredulity and anger, Tucker decides on a bit of both. “You’re telling me someone switched my bomb with a grifball?!” he hisses. Church shushes him. “No, I’m fucking pissed! That’s messed up!”

“Hey, don’t look at me! I don’t know how that ball got mixed up in your bomb supply!” Church snaps back in a whisper. “What I _do_ know is that there are a bunch of enhanced grifballs somewhere in the base. I don’t know where exactly, but they’re there.”

“How the hell do you even know about all this?”

“Well,” Church says, suddenly awkward again. “I...maaay have helped Sarge make the enhancement a couple weeks back.”

“You. What.”

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Church says in a tone that says he is fully aware of how bullshit the whole situation is, which again mollifies Tucker somewhat. “Apparently Sarge has been working on improvements for the game ever since he made it, like, ages ago. He’s been trying to create a ball that not only makes the carrier _look_ like Grif, but weigh like Grif, sound like Grif, have the same crappy reflexes as Grif--basically be as close to Grif as possible. And since he couldn’t do it on his own, he asked Carolina if he could borrow me for a mission. And then he used me to help him make his thing. So, yeah. That happened.”

Tucker has to take another moment to process this. He had gone into this conversation thinking he was losing his mind, but now he’s pretty sure that Sarge is way ahead of him. “So I’m not...I wasn’t just seeing things, right? That guy actually turned into Grif?”

“Not _actually_ , but, yeah. You’re fine, Tucker. Don’t...don’t have a heart attack over it, seriously,” Church says, having the decency to sound just a little guilty. Before Tucker can react to that, Carolina’s calling Church back to her side and getting ready for Caboose to come in for training. “Sorry, gotta run.”

“Wait! One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

Tucker hesitates, but only for a second. It’s not like he has anyone else he can ask. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but...Wash is hot, right?”

Silence.

“Like, objectively?”

More silence.

“Like, you don’t have to be gay to know that he’s smokin’. Right?”

“Jesus, Tucker, what kind of dumbass question is that?” Church says finally. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t know! How does everyone know that Captain America’s the most bangable male Marvel superhero? They just do!”

“First of all: Come on. It’s gotta be Tony Stark. Second,” Church says before Tucker can argue, “you got a problem with a piece of technology you can’t explain? I got it. You got some psychoanalysis issue you need to get through? Sure. But...don’t come to me for the gay stuff. Seriously.”

“Gee, thanks, Church. That’s touching. Really, you’re making me cry,” Tucker says flatly.

“Fuck off,” Church says before promptly returning to Carolina’s side, and really, Tucker doesn’t know what else he was expecting.

***

“The security cameras in this base are useless,” is the first thing Wash says upon Tucker’s arrival. Before Tucker can even open his mouth for a smartass comment--‘I’m fine, thanks for asking’ was the first thing that came to mind, probably because he just got done talking to Church--Wash continues his rant. “Not only was the footage from the actual crime completely grayscale _and_ mute, which isn’t much help for identifying people in _identical full armor_ , the footage from the training grounds shows no evidence of people taking my cones. Hours of footage and yet. Nothing. How the hell am I supposed to find these guys?”

“Dude, chill,” Tucker says tonelessly, like this is the sixtieth time he has told Wash to just relax. It probably is, anyway. “It’s just cones. It’s not that big a deal.”

“It starts out that way, yes. But if we leave the problem unaddressed, a bunch of cones and graffiti turn into fist fights, and individual fist fights become all-out brawls. And besides.” Washington gestures to one of the motivational posters. It shows a Federal officer triumphing over a rebel soldier, with the subtitle ‘We will persevere!’ “With these guys, everything is personal.”

“You know what’s more personal than some dumb pranks? Seeing your own people get killed on the fucking battlefield.” Tucker has to take a moment to evaluate his own tone of voice. He sounds a lot bitterer than he was supposed to; maybe that stupid grifball prank is getting to him more than he thought.

“I mean,” he continues anyway, “seriously, why is everyone so hung up on this stupid prank war when there’s a real war going on outside?”

“That’s...surprisingly mature of you,” Washington says cautiously, “considering you spent twenty-five percent of your time in the canyon thinking up ways to pull a fast one me.”

“That was different. It’s not like we were out there risking our lives or anything.” A pause. Tucker tries to ease it back. “Also I gave up after you caught me, like, five times,” he adds, managing to sound a bit more like himself.

“Tucker, I know it may not seem that big a deal to you, but little things like this can pile up,” Wash says, a smidge exasperated. Tucker can tell he’s more exasperated with his own inability to fix things than he is with this conversation, and a significantly large fraction of him wants to do _something_ to make Wash stop beating himself up about it. As it is, all he can do is let Wash keep talking. “You’re right, we should be focusing on the big picture. But once that ball starts rolling, it’s hard to stop. At this rate, they might even start sabotaging each other’s missions.”

“Dude, that would be the dumbest…”

And then Tucker goes dead silent.

That grifball had to have gotten on his belt somehow.

“Uh. Is everything okay?” Wash says after a moment.

Someone had to have put it there. Someone from their own side.

“Oh. Fuck.” Tucker starts shoving things back into his duffel bag. “There’s no fucking way.”

Washington opens and shuts his mouth. “I’m confused. Was it something I said?”

“No shit.” Tucker runs a hand through his hair and zips up the bag. Now that he thinks about it, half the team on that mission was from the federal army. It could’ve been any one of them. Any one of his own men could’ve switched out that bomb just to mess with him. “ _Fuck_.”

It takes a moment for Wash to piece it together. When he does, his eyes flash dangerously. “Someone sabotaged your mission, didn’t they?”

“Not now, Wash. I gotta go.”

“Tucker, if something happened, you need to tell me right now.”

“I’ll explain later. I gotta go find Sarge.” Tucker picks up his things and heads for the door. Wash, however, gets there faster and presses his hand against the touchpad that operates the door, keeping it shut. Tucker walks right into the door. “Ow! Hey, what the hell!”

Tucker turns around to glare, but finds it difficult to keep a straight face when Wash is towering over him, his eyes dark and intense. It doesn’t help that his back is pressed flat against the door, trapped between two admittedly beefy arms.

“Practice is not over yet, captain. You’re not going anywhere until I dismiss you,” Wash says sternly. His body is warm and mere inches away. “Now tell me what’s going on. That’s an order.”

Tucker gulps. Well. If he didn’t have an authority kink before, he definitely has one now.

The instinct to talk back conflicts with the instinct to close the distance between them. He tries to come up with a comeback--because, really, Wash hasn’t had the authority to give him orders for a long time--but his mind is currently a mantra of ‘don’t look at his lips, don’t look at his lips, don’t look at his fucking lips’ that ultimately fails him, hard. Once he gives in, he can’t look away, especially not when Wash’s teeth move to graze his lower lip. Tucker has never really kissed girls with soft and luscious lips before, considering all his sexual experience has been in the army and nobody has time for Chapstick around here, but there’s something a lot rougher and harder about the way Wash’s lips look; something that incites a special kind of curiosity in him. And those teeth--he can’t help but imagine how they’d feel dragged across his skin, down his spine, his chest.

Wash’s cheeks are red when Tucker finally tears his eyes away. It would be ridiculously easy to just pull him in and finally get this over with, Tucker thinks. His hand is gripping the front of Wash’s shirt and tugging him closer before he can chicken out of it, an action that makes Wash’s eyes widen and mouth drop open in the dumbest awestruck look Tucker has ever seen on him. Tucker doesn’t even try to suppress his smirk.

Before either of them can do anything else, Washington’s hand moves from the door lock and the door slides open. Tucker falls onto the floor painfully, pulling Wash down with him.

“Ow! Son of a bitch!” Tucker squirms underneath him. “Dammit, Wash, get off!”

Washington is quick to do so. He helps Tucker up and coughs into his fist, nodding awkwardly at the scandalized bystanders and passersby. Tucker shoots him a dirty look. “Hey, I saw that.”

“Saw what?” Wash says, breathless and confused.

“You unlocked the door so I would fall!”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Washington replies shortly. He sounds annoyed enough for it to be true, but Tucker’s not quite sure if he should believe that. Wash cracks his back and groans. “Oh, that feels better.”

Tucker frowns as he watches Wash brush himself off. He wouldn’t put it past Wash to pull these kinds of stunts to avoid rejecting him outright, but it’s not like he has sufficient evidence to support that. Either way, maybe it was for the best. Tucker is not entirely sure where he was going with that whole seduction thing; maybe he would’ve changed his mind at the last second if Wash hadn’t intervened. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that happened.

“So.” Wash clears his throat, regaining some dignity. “I believe you were about to debrief me on your latest mission, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker winces. He had almost forgotten about that. “Shit. Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. But don’t laugh.”

***

Washington doesn’t even crack a smile. Tucker kind of wishes he would; his glare is pretty intimidating.

“So someone planted a grifball on your belt.”

“Yup.”

“And you used it.”

“Yep.”

“And then an enemy turned into Grif. And you thought they killed him.”

“Yeeeah… You know, it’s kinda funny when you say it out loud. Maybe not, like, laugh-out-loud funny, but I can totally see where they were going with it.” Tucker tries to grin and laugh it off, but Wash’s frown only deepens. “Okay, maybe not that funny.”

“Tucker, you watched one of your oldest friends get killed right in front of you. That’s not funny. That’s cruel,” Washington says grimly.

“Okay, ‘oldest friend’ is a bit strong. Maybe more like--”

“Tucker.”

“Ugh, I know, okay?” he snaps a little. “It was messed up and weird and it fucked me up a lot, but I’m not gonna mope over something that didn’t even really happen. Can’t we just move on, already?”

There’s a pause. Eventually, Wash softens a little and sighs. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

The apology throws Tucker off a bit. He had fully expected Wash to tell him to take the whole thing seriously, not to back off as soon as Tucker told him to. This whole ‘respecting boundaries’ shit he’s pulling somehow makes it feel even more serious. “You don’t have to apologize about it,” Tucker says uncomfortably. “I mean, I was pretty pissed when I found out, too. I get it.”

“Still, this is partly my fault,” Wash says with a tight frown. “Chances are, one of the feds did this to you. And they’re my responsibility.”

“Wash, you’re not their babysitter,” Tucker says, but Washington stands and heads for the door before he can even finish. “Wait, where are you going?”

Wash pauses in the doorway. “I don’t take kindly to people hurting my friends,” is all he says before exiting the training room with a quiet yet dangerous air about him. Part of Tucker is admittedly touched by the badass display of protectiveness and concern, but mostly he just rolls his eyes at the classic Agent Washington melodrama. Another tiny part of him finds it kind of hot when Washington gets all huffy and mad like that, but he files that thought away for later.

Tucker catches up with him quickly. “Man, we need to have a talk about your one-liner problem,” he tells him on their way down the hall. “Like, seriously. You have an obsession with leaving people in suspense.”

“I’m going to have a chat with Sarge,” Washington explains.

“Okay, I know he’s kind of out there and all, but even he wouldn’t do something _that_ twisted.”

“I know. My guess is that someone broke into his room and stole them. Which begs the question, how many others know about the grifballs?”

“As far as I know, it’s just Church.”

“Hm. We’ll see about that.”

They arrive at Sarge’s quarters in the middle of a tense conversation between Sarge and Church, both of whom pause at Tucker’s arrival. “Uh...sup,” Tucker says awkwardly.

“Sup,” says Sarge.

Church looks between Tucker and Washington. “You told him about it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, he interrogated the shit out of me,” Tucker says at the same time Washington replies, “It doesn’t matter who told me. What the hell is wrong with you two?”

“Wait, interrogated? That wasn’t an interrogation,” Wash adds after a second. “When I interrogate you, you’ll know.”

“Dude, you blocked me into a corner and pulled rank on my ass. Sounds pretty interrogative to me.”

“Could you guys postpone your banter until later? Thanks,” Church says dryly.

“Shut up,” both Tucker and Washington intone.

“Son,” Sarge interjects, bringing them back on topic, “those balls were never meant to see the light of day. Just the great, fluorescent lights of a giant grifball stadium. Oh, it would’ve been beautiful.”

“And yet one found its way into the supply,” Washington replies. “How?”

Church and Sarge exchange a look. Sarge shrugs. “Dunno. I’ve been keeping all my grifball supplies in my room for ages.”

The blues try to take a peek over Sarge’s shoulder, but his size and armor make it a difficult task. “May we take a look?” Wash asks.

“Mm, I don’t know…” Sarge grumbles in his usual blue conspiracy tone. “S’top secret stuff in there.”

“Dude. You owe me,” says Tucker. “Seriously, I thought I was losing my mind back there. I basically saw Grif die!”

“You lucky bastard,” Sarge says immediately. He grows quiet, however, under Tucker and Wash’s eyes. “Oh…” More grumbling. “Oh, alright. Never thought I’d see the day I’d let not one, but _three_ blues into my quarters. This makes us even, cyan.”

“I’m--!”

“Not even in your armor right now, dude,” Church points out. Tucker just sticks up a finger at him.

The red-team-posters-to-blank-space ratio on Sarge’s walls is absurdly high. The whole room itself feels cluttered and cramped, very much unlike Donut’s space, and for some reason Tucker thinks he feels sand getting into his shoes as he comes in. There are a number of grifballs that Tucker almost steps on, plus a collection of cones leaking out of a broken locker. He exchanges a look with Washington, who simultaneously looks as if he has discovered a long lost treasure and decided to murder everyone in their sleep tonight.

“That explains why I couldn’t find anything in the training room footage,” Wash mutters to Tucker. “I was looking at the wrong timestamps. Sarge must’ve taken them after training hours.”

“Get yer nose outta that locker, Sherlock,” Sarge says, evidently noticing their eyes on the trail of cones. “Those are for grifball purposes only.”

Wash raises an eyebrow but otherwise backs away. “So you want me to believe that someone took both the cones _and_ the grifballs out of your room? Sounds a little convenient, don’t you think?”

“Listen, numbnuts, if I want to get a laugh outta someone, I’ll just use Grif for target practice.” Sarge struggles with the lock on his chest for a little. “Dagnabit!” He pulls out his gun and shoots it off. “Hrmph. That’s the fifth lock this week.”

“Well, that explains how someone got in without a key,” Church observes.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce...grifball palooza.” Sarge steps aside and throws the chest open. Grifballs spill out over the sides, each one of them glowing dangerously orange.

Washington crouches down to examine them. “These balls look like they’re active.”

“Indeedy-do,” Sarge says with a touch of pride.

“Aren’t...aren’t all of these technically still bombs?” Washington says slowly, looking at Sarge. “I mean, you have to get them in a goal to set them off, but still. They _are_ bombs.”

“What’s yer point?”

“How. How have you people survived this long. _How_.”

“Lemme see that.” Ignoring Wash’s protest, Tucker reaches down and grabs a ball, testing it in his hand. It hums excitedly in his palm, tingling.

Church pops up in front of Tucker. “The appearance modifiers don’t work unless you’re wearing armor, dumbass.”

“I know! I’m just looking.” Tucker holds it out to Sarge. “Here, you take it.”

Sarge shrinks away from his outstretched hand and holds up his gun. “Get that beautiful piece of technology away from me, blue.”

“I just wanna see if it works!”

“Of course it works! You saw it yerself!”

“Sarge,” Wash says warningly, and wow, Tucker can definitely get used to Wash threatening people into doing what Tucker says. “You just need to hold it for a minute.”

“A minute?! That’s a whole sixty seconds of my life spent being Grif!” Sarge wags his gun around. “I won’t do it! You can’t make me!”

On second thought, having a powerful AI best friend is a lot more useful. Tucker looks at Church. “Hey. Could you, uh…?”

Church groans. “Are you serious? Ugh, fine. You owe me.”

Before Sarge can even figure out what’s going on, Church surges forward into his armor. Sarge twitches a few times before Church finally settles in place. He opens and closes his hand. “You know...he’s a lot cleaner than I thought he’d be,” Church says thoughtfully.

Tucker tosses him the ball, which he catches easily. Every time, Tucker thinks to himself. They catch it every time. Fuck the army; he should’ve done baseball.

Yet again, the color transformation begins, starting from Sarge’s helmet all the way down to his feet. From this close, Tucker can see every detail of it, the way the orange washes over him like water, the way his shoulders slouch under the pressure of an artificial weight. Some of it brings shivers down his spine as he remembers, and he can feel Wash’s eyes on him as he tries to suppress the involuntary response. They’re safe here, he remembers. No one is going to shoot.

Once the transformation’s complete, Church clears his throat in Grif’s voice. “So, yeah. Real deal.”

“And exactly how many are there?” Washington says, eyeing the chest.

“I dunno. Last I checked, at least, like...seventy.”

Wash does a double take. “ _Seventy_? Jesus Christ.”

Tucker whistles. “Dang. With that kind of equipment, we could have our own tournament.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure that was the plan.” Church tosses the ball back to Tucker and immediately reverts back to Sarge-colored red. He then proceeds to exit Sarge’s head and shrink back into a small hologram.

Sarge twitches again and shudders. “Foul play! That was foul play, blues!”

“Hold up,” Tucker says before Sarge can launch into another one of his red versus blue rants. He inspects the ball in his hand, thinking. “You were planning to have a tournament with these babies?”

“Well, I _was_ until _someone_ used their spooky ghost powers on me,” Sarge grumbles. “Now I’m not sure I’m in much of a sharing mood.”

“Haven’t we gone over this already? Seriously, the whole AI reveal was, like, four seasons ago,” Church complains. He pauses. “Well, four or five.”

“Also, when would we even find the time to do a tournament in the middle of a war?” Washington adds. “Or did we all just magically forget why we’re here? I mean, really. First the prank war and now this?”

Tucker hums, still inspecting the ball. He can feel an idea slowly taking form.

“Why you…!” Sarge shakes his fist at them, the epitome of a grumpy old man. “I let you into my quarters, I show you my treasures, and what do I get in return? Possession! Betrayal! Relentless unwarranted criticism! I shoulda known these grifballs would only break us apart again!”

And there it is. Tucker holds up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, guys, wait. I just had an awesome idea.”

Church snorts. “Here we go.”

“Dude, shut up. Just listen. If we keep letting things go the way they’re going, this prank war is gonna go on forever. Even if we find out who’s behind all the major pranks, who’s to say others won’t start pranking, too? _But_...” Tucker holds up the grifball. “If we find another way for them to let out steam on stupid shit like grifball, they’ll stop trying to outdo each other with pranks and start trying to outdo each other in sports. It’s perfect!”

Now it’s Wash and Church’s turn to exchange a look. “So you want to end the prank war...by pitting these highly hostile factions against each other over one of the deadliest sports known to man,” Wash says.

“Yeah, Tucker, I’m pretty sure you mixed up the words ‘awesome’ and ‘dumbass’ again,” Church quips.

“I mean, yeah, it’s going to be violent, but at least it’ll be violent in our own base rather than out on the battlefield.” Tucker wags the grifball at Wash. “Wash, wouldn’t you rather see these used for a stupid game of grifball than for some weird mindscrewy bullshit?

Washington’s lips press into a thin, contemplative line. He hums. “I...I don’t know,” he says reluctantly. “I guess you have a point there. But--”

“And these things are one-use only, remember?” Tucker presses on, because really, fuck it, he’s giving it all he’s got. “They’re bombs. Once we use them in a game, they’re gone forever. That means for every goal we get, there is one less grifball for people to steal from Sarge.”

Another thoughtful hum. “It _would_ be an effective way to get rid of them,” Wash concedes.

Church stares at Wash. “He’s turning you dumb, isn’t he? All that time in the gym with him is making you dumb. Next you’re gonna start making sex jokes and hitting on anything with a pair of boobs.”

Washington glances at Tucker, eyebrow raised. “Actually, I’m pretty sure the restriction on anatomy no longer ap--ow! Tucker!”

“ _So_ ,” Tucker says loudly, ignoring the weird looks from Church and Sarge. “We’re doing it, right? Right?”

Church is the first to speak up. “I want--”

“Bow chika bow wow.” Church falls silent. Tucker raises his hands in defense. “Because I said doing it. Just saying. Continue.”

“As I was _saying_ ,” Church continues on, “I want no part in this. Dickhole.”

“Whatever. Sarge?”

“Well, you can count me in!” Sarge places a hand on his heart. “Just the thought of all that violence and bloodshed against Grif-looking people makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.” He sniffles.

At last, they all turn to Wash. He looks around the room, lips folded in uneasy hesitance. His eyes eventually settle on Tucker; in return, Tucker searches his face for a sign of acknowledgement or trust. “I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I wasn’t positive it would work,” he says, holding Wash’s gaze.

After another long moment, Wash closes his eyes and sighs. “Okay. Yeah. I’m in.”

Tucker grins and pumps the fist that isn’t currently holding the grifball. “Alright, sweet! Now all we gotta do is convince the rest of the reds and the blues to join our teams.”

“Right, we should…” Wash frowns. “Wait. ‘Our teams’? Meaning, not only are all of us playing, but we’re playing against each other?”

Tucker shrugs. “Well, duh. How are we supposed to convince the whole army to play if we don’t play it ourselves?” At Wash’s troubled look, Tucker chuckles. “What? You think you can’t beat me?”

Wash lets out an incredulous laugh. “I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back, Lavernius,” he says with a half-smirk that will haunt Tucker’s mental spank bank for years to come.

For the time being, Tucker manages to hide his shock and arousal with a smirk of his own. “Bring it. Uh. Agent.”

“Real smooth, Tucker.”

“Shut up, Church,” both Tucker and Wash intone yet again.

***

**Grif**

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Dude.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“Hmm. You know what?” Grif pretends to think about it. “Fuck no.”

Tucker groans. “Why not!”

“You know how it works, don’t you?” Grif says as they walk down the hall to the training room. It’s way too early for Tucker to be putting up with Grif’s whiny bullshit, and yet here he is. “The whole objective of the game is to beat me up! No way am I playing that shit!”

“Aren’t you also the one who scores all the goals?”

“See? It’s either I get beat up or I have to do everything. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

Tucker throws his hands up. “Man, how am I supposed to convince the rest of the army to play grifball if the guy who pretty much _made_ grifball doesn’t even want to play?”

“Technically, I didn’t ‘make’ grifball. I was just in the room when it happened. Also, that sounds more like a ‘you’ problem than a ‘me’ problem, buddy,” is all Grif has to say before slipping into the training room.

Washington follows not too long after. “Having trouble getting him to agree?”

Tucker sighs. “I tried everything.”

“Hmm. Maybe not everything.”

***

“You guys...suck...so much…” Grif accuses in between gasps for breath. He collapses onto the training room floor.

“Initially I offered him excused absences from training for a week, but when that didn’t work, I made him run laps until he said yes,” Washington explains. “Normally I’d feel bad about the abuse of power, but he gave up on the second lap, so...”

Tucker looks between Wash and the exhausted pile of orange on the floor. “Isn’t that, like, half of what you give them every day?” he asks.

“Monsters,” Grif wheezes. “Both of you.”

***

**Simmons**

“You mean the game where people hit each other with hammers?” Simmons laughs sarcastically. “Uh, yeah. No. Hard pass.”

Tucker perches himself on the armory counter. “I’ll cover armory duty for a week,” he offers.

“You’d just mess everything up,” Simmons dismisses. “I have a system, you know. And spreadsheets. I even made up a color-coded chart. You wanna see?”

“Wow, you’re right, that sounds like a lot of shit I don’t care about,” Tucker says as Simmons rummages under the counter for his chart. “What about...I don’t know, free oil or something? Aren’t you still a cyborg?”

Simmons pops back up with a flow chart of data. Tucker doesn’t even bother reading it. “Yes. That’s not something you grow out of. And...I don’t think the kind of oil you’re thinking of is the kind I want, so, no. Thanks.”

“Your loss. My coconut body oil is the bomb.”

One of the soldiers in line clears her throat. “Excuse me, Captain Simmons? Am I going to get my bazooka anytime soon?”

“Oh! I--yes--right--uh huh--bazook--bazooka, right, yeah, right here, uh--” Simmons babbles for a full ten seconds before Tucker decides to step in.

“Hey, girl.” Tucker stretches out over the counter and leans his head against his hand. Sexual identity crisis or not, he can’t _not_ take an opportunity like this. “You wanna take a ride on my bazooka? Bow chika bow--”

Tucker is rewarded for his efforts with a kick to the stomach and the impact of the cold hard ground. He groans. “I’ll come back when he’s not here,” the soldier says to Simmons.

Simmons’s babble suddenly goes silent. He sighs in relief. “Okay. You want me to play? Just. Keep doing that.”

“Keep doing what?” Tucker asks, popping back up over the counter. “Hitting on chicks for you? Uh, don’t get me wrong, I’m master of love, but I’m no matchmaker. And besides, aren’t you and Grif a thing?”

“No, you idiot, I… Wait, _what_?!” Simmons’s voice cracks so badly it could compare to Grif’s.

“What?” A pause. “Ohh, I get it. You want me to drive the ladies away so they don’t try to flirt with you. I dunno if you really need me for that, but whatever. I’ll do my best, I guess. Seeya later, Simmons.”

“That’s not--I--wait--we’re not--augh, dammit, blue!”

***

**Caboose**

“Hey, Caboose, you like games, don’t you?”

“Ooh, I _love_ games!”

“Cool. Because we’re trying to get a team together, and--”

“I wanna play.”

“You don’t even know what we’re playing, yet.”

“That’s okay. Carolina says I’m a fast learner. Well...faster than...something. Faster than a rock? No, that’s not it.”

“Okay, cool, I don’t care. So we’re playing grifball. But you can’t tell Kimball or Doyle. Got it?”

“Question: Are we gonna have team names? I think we should be the Chicago Bears.”

“We’re not even in America. We’re not even on Earth!”

“So you’re saying just because I’m not an American I can’t be on the team with you guys?! I thought we were friends, Tucker!”

“Dude. Just listen to me.”

“Let me be on the teeeeam! Tuuucker! Tuuu--”

“I said just listen, dumbass!”

“--uuucker, I want to play so baaaa--”

“Stop talking over me!”

“--aaaad, please, please, pl--”

“Oh my God, Caboose, shut up!”

“--ease, please, please, PL--”

“Jesus Christ, I hate you.”

“--EASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, COME ON, PLE--”

“CABOOSE! YOU’RE ON THE FUCKING TEAM!”

“Aw, awesome! What are we playing again?”

***

**Donut & Lopez**

Donut is immediately delighted. “Ooh, I love sports! You can totally count me in!”

Tucker can’t help but ask. “Really? You’re into that?”

“Of course! Who doesn’t enjoy a little man-on-man action?” Donut whips out his gun and swings it around like a hammer, making sound effects with each swipe. “He goes left, he goes right, and--psych! Team Lightish Red has the ball!”

“Okay, what about him?” Tucker looks at Lopez.

“No,” says Lopez.

“Whoa.” Tucker looks between Lopez and Donut. “Did he just speak English?”

“‘ _No’ en español es ‘no,’ estúpido_ ,” Lopez replies.

“Oh.” Tucker relaxes. “For a second, I thought I broke him or something. Whew.”

“He says he’s thinking about it,” Donut translates with another swish of his gun.

“ _¿Por qué probar?_ ” mutters Lopez.

“That’s a good question, buddy! Will there be uniforms?”

“ _Bien. Apúntame. No me importa_.”

Donut nods. “You’re right. We should design them ourselves right away.”

_"¿Cómo? Hay solamente dos colores."_

"Don't worry, Tucker. We're on the case."

“ _Suspiro_ . _Te odio_.”

***

~~**Carolina** ~~

“Tucker, no.” Washington walks alongside him with far too much ease, considering Tucker is speed-walking as fast as he can. “This is a horrible idea. She’s not going to go for it.”

“Well, we need _someone_ to be the referee, and she’s literally the only unbiased person in the capital, sooo...” Tucker tries to pick up the pace, but Wash matches him easily. “Dammit! These beautiful calves do nothing for me!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wash comments lightly, leaving Tucker speechless for a moment.

“Did you just…?” He shakes his head. “Was that flirting just now? Was--?”

Washington manages to get up ahead of him and blocks the door to the training room. He really needs to stop that towering-over-him thing, Tucker thinks as he swallows dryly. That man is pretty much just begging to be kissed, hard. A bit difficult with the helmets in the way, but, still.

“Even if we do somehow manage to convince her this is a good idea,” Wash says quietly, giving Tucker an ample excuse to lean in closer, “she won’t be happy sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else play. She’ll want part of the action, too. And then when she does, she’ll beat everybody into a bloody pulp and no one will be happy.”

Way to ruin the mood, thinks Tucker as the arousal promptly seeps out of him. “So who do you suggest we get to referee? Church? He already said no to us once.”

“Hmm… I don’t know. But he would definitely be our best bet.”

There is a thoughtful silence.

Tucker is the first to break it. “Wait. I got it.”

***

**Church**

“Oh my God, Church, it’ll be so much fun! We can--we can, uh--”

“I hate you guys. So much.”

“--uh, we can ride to the championships on buses together and have nice little retreats and carry each other on our shou--”

“This isn’t going to work, you know. I had to put up with him for _years_ ; you think I’d start cracking now?”

“--lders and dump energy drinks on each other’s heads and--and carry trophies together and polish the trophies and put them on display and--”

“Okay, that’s enough, buddy.”

“--make up little dances every time we reach a goal and--and paint each other’s faces with those black charcoal thingies that people put on their faces all the time and come to think of it--”

“Shut up, Caboose.”

“--why _do_ they put those things on their faces? It’s like, kinda like finger-painting for your face. Does it help them catch the ball or something? What kind of--”

“Caboose, shut up.”

“--balls are we playing with, anyway? I asked Donut about it earlier and, yeah, he wasn’t very helpful. He started--”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“--talking about all different kinds of balls and how they fit in his hands, and it got really confusing, and I got bored so I just wandered--”

“Caboose, I swear to God...”

“--off in the middle of him talking, but anyway you should be on my team, we’re gonna be the blue team even though half of us are red--”

“I’m not doing it. Nope. Nope. _Nope_. Nope.”

“--which I guess would make us purple, but Tucker’s the one who picked the colors and I don’t think he knows a lot about colors. I mean, I’m not really sure what he’s supposed to be. He calls himself a blue, but I really think he’s more of like, a, um, that shade of green that, you know? In the--”

“OKAY, FINE! JESUS! I’LL DO IT! JUST SHUT HIM UP!”

Tucker exchanges a look with Wash before shooing Caboose back into the mess hall. “Told you.”

***

“So I got Dr. Grey to agree to be our on-site paramedic,” Washington says in the middle of sparring, hardly breaking a sweat. Tucker simply grunts, too breathless to say anything else. “She said something about how ‘unique and interesting’ grifball-related injuries are, so. There’s that.”

“Uh-huh.” Tucker narrowly dodges a punch. “Cool.” Another one. “So we…” Another. “Uh…” He gets hit and stumbles backwards onto his ass. “Ow. Timeout.”

Tucker shifts on his ass sorely and stretches his arms, trying not to notice Wash’s eyes on him as he does. “Palomo...spread the word about the tournament...earlier today,” he says in between breaths. “And they...are gonna stop...pranking...for a bit...so we should be good...on that...yeah.”

Wash crouches down to his level. “Hey, you doing okay?”

Tucker rubs his ass. “I dunno. Is it physically possible to break your butt?”

“Uh, kind of. But you’re probably fine. Also, that’s not what I was asking.” When Tucker looks at him quizzically, he sits down on the floor with him. “I just wanted to check in with you about the whole...incident. You know. The thing that started all this.”

“Oh, right.” Tucker shifts into a position that doesn’t feel like he’s spreading his legs for Wash and coughs. “Yeah, I’m over it. Don’t worry so much.”

“I only do that because you don’t worry enough. I…” Wash gulps and scratches his neck. His fingers are touching the back of his neck, where Tucker remembers seeing a bright white scar tearing across. “I know a thing or two about psychological manipulation, having experienced it myself a number of times. It’s hard to swallow, even after you realize it was only just a dream. And I know our circumstances are different, but I just wanted to make sure you’re not keeping it all locked up. You can talk to me, you know.”

There’s something vulnerable about the way Wash’s eyebrows knit together, like he’s remembering a bad dream. Tucker imagines reaching out and comforting him, his hand stretched out over the back of Wash’s neck, all gentle and affectionate and calming. The mental image makes his face warm and his chest all funny. His hands feel like they need to do _something_ , anyway, so he clumsily grabs Wash’s elbow and squeezes. Not very romantic or sexy, he thinks. Actually pretty lame. He even gets a surprised chuckle out of Wash, and dammit, why is he so bad at this?

“I, uh…” Tucker coughs. This is actually turning out to be a lot tougher than he thought. He swipes his thumb over Wash’s elbow thoughtfully and is embarrassed by his own instincts. “Uh… Thanks. For...you know. Caring and shit. I know emotional stuff isn’t really your thing. S’not really my thing, either,” he adds quickly, the babble pouring out under Wash’s intense gaze. Tucker dares to meet his eyes and sucks up all his nerves, though he’s still completely lost as to where they came from. “But...you should follow your own advice, dude. I mean, you can talk to me, too. I know you’ve been through _way_ more than any of us combined. And….you know. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Washington doesn’t have any initial reaction beyond his eyes widening a fraction. Then it happens: a slow, gradual smile spreads across his face, a warm expression that makes his eyes crinkle. He genuinely, actually smiles, all soft and intimate and nothing like the half-smirks and grins Tucker has seen before, and something about it feels like Wash has just let him in on some well-hidden secret for the first time. Tucker has no idea why the hell it makes him feel like he just got the wind knocked out of him.

“Yeah, we are,” Wash says quietly. He stops rubbing his neck to reach down and squeeze Tucker’s hand. “Thanks, Tucker.”

His hand on Wash squeezes a bit tighter, if only because he is trying to get ahold of himself and feels like he can’t hold onto anything else. This turns out to be a horrible idea, however, because now he can fully appreciate how lean and hard Washington’s muscles are, and now there’s arousal thrown into the mix, and really, can’t he go just one training session without wanting to make out with Wash?

Fortunately, Wash has the good sense to gently remove Tucker’s hand from his arm. The action feels a lot like a rejection, and Tucker tries hard not to feel hurt as his hand falls back to his side.

“So.” Washington stands and offers Tucker his hand. “Back to training?”

Tucker considers pulling Wash back down onto the floor and having his way with him. He considers finally, _finally_ pressing their lips together and letting things go from there. He considers having Wash's weight on him again, limbs entangled, chest-to-chest--just forgetting all the confusion and hesitation and 'what if's that could irreversibly affect the future. _Their_ future; the future of whatever 'they' are. Even just one kiss would be fine, at this point; just that and nothing else. But he knows exactly how that would turn out.

He sighs and accepts his hand. He shouldn't feel this thrilled about the way Wash squeezes his hand as he rises, but he does.

“Yep.”

He is fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Explanatory notes:  
> *Lopez's dialogue: "'No' in Spanish is 'no,' stupid." / "Why try?" / "Fine. Sign me up. I don't care." / "How? There are only two colors." / "Sigh. I hate you."  
> My Spanish isn't great, so I used SpanishDict to help me out with the translation. If there are any technical errors, please let me know and I'll fix it right away.  
> *For those of you who aren't familiar with grifball, it's an actual Halo minigame that Rooster Teeth created several years ago, where the person holding the "ball" turns orange so that they are easier to see. All they have to do is get to the goal, at which point the ball explodes. I should mention now that one of Grif's lines in this fic is actually a reference to something his VA, Geoff Ramsey, said in a recent let's play of grifball. I take no credit for that; I just thought it would be funny to include it. Also, fun fact: RT actually has a four-season miniseries about grifball set in the RvB universe, and it's pretty cute. You can find it on YouTube if you look hard enough.  
> Can you tell that I was excited to finally get to the grifball part of this fic? Hehe ;)  
> Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed! Seeya in a month, hopefully.


	6. Lesson Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wash reconsiders some decisions that he made.

Washington has never had to reject someone like this before. Usually, he’s the one who clumsily puts himself out there and gets either completely shut down or, more rarely, rewarded for his trouble. This along with his catastrophically bad luck means that his skillset is naturally more in the direction of bracing himself for bad news, rather than giving it to someone else. As such, when one of the Federal Army captains asks if she can take part in one of his private training sessions, all that comes out of his mouth is a startled ‘oh!’ followed by a more grim and nervous ‘oh,’ as if someone just thrust a time bomb at him and politely asked him to defuse it.

“It’s just that for a while I have noticed that I am a bit more...accelerated, compared to my peers in training,” the captain continues uncomfortably, picking up on his reaction. “And when I heard that you were giving Captain Tucker private lessons, I thought that I should perhaps, ah...give it a go.”

Wash frowns. It’s true that she has been performing at the top of her squad consistently for the past few weeks, but he had never really thought anything of it; just recorded the numbers on his clipboard and prepared for the next session. Then again, it’s not like these private lessons were even his idea in the first place.

The captain clears her throat when he doesn’t respond. "I am aware that I must seem forward, sir,” she goes on, growing more uncertain. “I wasn’t entirely sure how the selection process goes, or if I was qualified, but…if I may be frank, I feel that I deserve this.”

“Oh boy,” he says aloud without meaning to.

“Sir?”

Washington pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a moment to compose himself. Right. He’s a leader now. Sort of. He can do this. Sort of. “Look, I admire your ambition. You’re right. Ever since day one, you’ve proven yourself to be an outstanding soldier. And since you’ve begun training, you’ve even improved significantly. But…” The captain visibly falters. Wash withholds a sympathetic wince and sighs. “I’m sorry.”

The captain hangs her head a little, but nods. “May I ask why?”

This is painful, Wash thinks. He’d rather be hanging by his toes over a cliff. What is he supposed to say in this sort of situation? ‘Actually, these lessons weren’t even my idea. I just wanted to rescue one of my friends from the wrath that is Instructor Carolina, and now the sexual tension between us is thicker than butter, so I would feel kind of uncomfortable having you there. No offense.’

“Well, you see… These lessons are really designed for a one-on-one setting, and with all the people I have to train on a daily basis, I’m not sure I have the time for more than one private student,” Wash says instead, swallowing down the real truth and settling for a half-truth. Barely that, even; more like a quarter-truth.

“Oh. Is that so?” There’s a tinge of skepticism or maybe just disappointment that he doesn’t have a better answer. Washington can’t really blame her; his response sounded lame even to his own ears.

“Yes. It is,” he replies eventually, managing to sound stern if not convincing. When her face doesn’t change, he adds: “You can always ask Agent Carolina...although I’m not sure you’d have much luck there, either. Captain Caboose is enough of a handful as it is.” Also, if those two need full body armor just to train together, Wash is pretty sure that anyone who tries to join them will just end up broken like a twig within the first session.

“I see…” The captain trails off with a thoughtful frown.

Against his better judgment, Washington asks, “Something on your mind?”

The captain clears her throat. “Well… Perhaps I should not say this, but there have been some...ugly rumors about the nature of your relationship with--”

“Captain Tucker,” Wash finishes for her.

She looks scandalized for a moment, then bashful, then carefully neutral. Wash, meanwhile, merely shrugs and musters up a poker face of his own. After enduring Grif and Donut’s comments over the past few weeks, it has become increasingly difficult to embarrass him over this. But he’s fairly sure that those are just jibes. What she’s implying is an outright accusation.

“I’m aware, captain,” Washington says when the silence has stretched on long enough. “And I wouldn’t put too much faith in locker room gossip, if I were you.”

“Of course. I simply wanted you to be aware of how it looks, Agent Washington,” she replies.

“How it looks to who?”

The captain merely worries her bottom lip and shakes her head. “To...to people. Others. Not me. I would never think that of you. I apologize if I have offended you.”

Washington bites back the follow-up questions that come to mind. He really shouldn’t care about the lies people choose to believe about him, even if he can’t help but squirm from all the attention. “It’s alright. Is that all?”

The captain nods. “Yes, sir. I am sorry for bothering you, especially at this hour.”

“No worries. Get some rest, soldier.”

With one final nod and a salute, the captain proceeds down the hall, leaving Wash alone with his thoughts. So people still think he’s favoring Tucker. He shouldn’t be surprised, considering all the extra time they have spent sneaking around getting this tournament set up. Rejecting that captain just now probably made things worse. Or maybe it would’ve been worse if she did start joining their sessions and felt the undeniable tension between them. Or maybe Tucker would’ve hit on her until she quit. Probably that last one, actually.

“Yoohoo!” Sarge’s voice echoes from down the hall, startling him out of that useless train of thought. Sarge waves and points to Simmons’s door. “Party’s that way, blue.”

“Oh, hey Sarge. Didn’t see you there. Erm.” Wash frowns. “How much of that did you see?”

“How much of what?”

“Nevermind.”

Sarge folds his lips and hums his ‘suspicious blue’ hum, but for once doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he just shakes his head and knocks on Simmons’s door. Washington joins him shortly and, ignoring Sarge's eyes on him, examines a piece of lined paper taped to the door. It reads: ‘DO NOT DISTURB* >:(,‘ with a subtitle underneath reading, ‘*Unless you have food.’

After some shouting from inside and the sound of something being thrown against the wall, the door slides open to reveal Simmons, whose glasses are askew and hair fuzzy with static. The strands reach for the ceiling and crackle when he runs a hand through them. “You guys are late. I’ve had to deal with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Boner by myself for the past fifty minutes. ”

“Goddammit!” comes Church’s voice from inside. “Not that thing! The other thing!”

“There are like sixty million things here! I don’t know what you want from me!” replies Grif.

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah. And that. Anyway, where the hell were you guys?”

Sarge crosses his arms. “Well excuuuse me for doin’ important work while you fellas were havin’ a sleepover! For yer information, _I_ got myself a few new additions to our grifball collection. Couple’a more fellas came by to drop some off and sign up for the tournament.”

Washington hums. “I still don’t know how I feel about rewarding the thieves for returning the balls by letting them participate...”

“Well, how else were we supposed to get the missing ones back?” says Simmons.

Wash sighs. “I guess I can’t argue with you there…” At Sarge and Simmons’s expectant look, he clears his throat. “As for me, I just had some matters to attend to before dropping by.” ‘Some matters’ being a much-deserved nap, but Wash has found that people around here don’t really ask questions when he is unnecessarily vague.

Lo and behold, the two reds exchange a look that communicates something along the lines of ‘same vague Freelancer bullshit as always’ and move on. “Whatever. Just get in here. Sarge, I need you to help me program these helmets. Wash, see if you can help _them_ not screw anything up.”

“Too late,” Grif, Tucker, and Church intone.

Simmons’s room is a mess of parts, gears, and schematics all laid out over the floor, bed, and desk, and an odd mix of Windex and oil permeates the air. On the bed, Grif is hunched over a deactivated gravity hammer laid out over his lap. Church projects out of a helmet sitting next to him, pointing at miscellaneous parts and putting up diagrams that look like illustrations from Hammers for Dummies. Tucker fiddles with a ball spawner on the floor with schematics laid out in front of him, a pencil tucked behind his ear and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Upon meeting Wash’s eyes, an easy grin spreads across his face, one that makes his eyes crinkle. The stomach flip that ensues is uncalled for.

Tucker motions him over. “Hey, Wash, gimme a hand with this thing. I’ve been fucking with it forever but it still won’t work.”

Wash smirks. “Are you sure it’s turned on this time?”

“Ha-ha. Trust me, I know what ‘turned on’ looks like. Bow chika bow wow.”

“Now hang on,” says Grif when Wash is halfway to Tucker’s corner. “I’ve been working just as long as he has and I am _way_ more lost. Also I’m tired and my wrists hurt.”

“I’m telling you, my carpal tunnel braces are one size fits all,” Simmons says from his side of the room.

“Nobody wants to wear your dumb nerd bracelets, Simmons.”

“Braces!”

“Point is, you should help me first. And by ‘help me first’ I mean ‘do my work for me.’”

Tucker gestures to Church. “You’ve literally got a fucking computer telling you what to do. How were you not done with this, like, half an hour ago?”

Grif shrugs. “What can I say? I don’t work well without my breaks. They keep me going.”

“Well, wait your fuckin’ turn, dude, ‘cause I asked first.”

“Did you call dibs?”

“I call--”

“Dibs.”

“Augh, son of a bitch!”

Grif looks at Wash. “Them’s the rules, buddy.”

Washington rolls his eyes and sits down next to Tucker. “You guys know I’m not actually bound by the laws of dibs, right?”

Grif mock-gasps. “Ohh, that’s right! You’re under the jurisdiction Tucker’s dick! My bad.”

Despite having resisted blushing at Grif’s comments for a long time, this one almost gets to him. Tucker’s response doesn’t help. “Haha, he’s calling you my bitch!”

“Alright, Grif, let’s see what you’ve got,” Wash says shortly, picking up the helmet that Church is using and setting him down next to Tucker. “Church, how about you help Tucker instead?”

Church snorts. “I think you just pissed off your boyfriend.”

“Dude, shut up.”

Although Wash’s craftsmanship still leaves something to be desired and they somehow land a dent in Simmons’s wall, the six of them manage to squeeze out a working ball spawner, eight helmets installed with a scorekeeping program, and the last three hammers of a set of eight by the end of the night. People start falling asleep not long after they’ve finished, Simmons being the first to go, followed closely by Sarge and Grif. Even Church eventually retreats into Grif’s helmet for some ‘alone time,’ but Wash never learns what he means by that. That leaves just Washington and Tucker to polish up the last of the hammers, sitting side by side on the floor against Simmons’s bed. Tucker manages to hold out for another ten minutes after Church leaves before he shoves his hammer away from himself and rests his head against the foot of the bed.

“Man, my hands haven’t been this sore since that time I tried out S&M.” Washington looks at him, skeptic. “Without the sex stuff. Came all the way downtown just so some lady could yell at me and hit me whenever I tried to touch her. If I wanted that, I could just hang out with, like, literally any girl I know. For free. And without the whips.”

Wash goes through a quick mental list of all the women Tucker has interacted with. “I think you’d probably get a bullet in your ass, instead,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, probably.” Tucker turns his head to narrow his eyes at Wash, accusingly almost. “Dude. How? How are you still going?”

Wash sets aside his hammer and gets to work on Grif’s half-assed one. He shrugs. “I’ve been up later. You can sleep if you want.”

Silence. After a small groan, Tucker picks himself back up and picks up another hammer. Wash raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a challenge, Tucker. Seriously. Go to bed.”

Tucker pulls the hammer into his lap and cracks his knuckles. “I can handle a few more. I mean, what kind of asshole would I be if I let you do all the work while I snoozed it up?”

Wash opens and shuts his mouth. He shouldn’t be so stunned every time Tucker turns out to be a hard worker, and yet he always is. “That’s...considerate of you."

“Whatever.” Tucker ducks his head like he always does when he’s embarrassed, hiding his face behind a curtain of dreads. Wash just smirks and lets him be.

There’s a nice, companionable silence between the two of them for a while after. Their shoulders brush frequently; on occasion, he feels the entirety of Tucker’s upper arm flush against his, shifting as he tries to get a good look at the schematics. There’s a brief moment where Wash considers moving, but Tucker’s warmth anchors him there, draws him in, and for once he doesn’t mind. Maybe it’s the exhaustion after a long day, or maybe he’s just being clueless, but somehow the sexual tension that has been boiling between them recently doesn’t exist in this space. For the first time in a long time, he simply enjoys a comfortable silence with a friend. _A comfortable silence_. The words ring in his head like an old memory come to visit. That feeling of trust, of fondness, of settling into each other’s lives like they’ve always been there.

Comfortable.

***

Washington wakes up to the soft pad of slippers coming down the hall and approaching the door, just barely audible but enough to alert him. He makes to stand, but Tucker’s weight against him keeps him right where he is. As does Grif’s foot about three inches away from his face.

The footsteps stop, and then there’s a hushed conversation just outside the door. Wash tries getting up again, this time maneuvering his face away from Grif’s pinky toe and gently removing Tucker from his shoulder. He manages to get onto his feet by the time Donut starts knocking on the door and singsonging things like ‘rise and shine!’ and ‘time to meet and eat, boys!’ and ‘wakey, wakey, we have bagels...y!’ The room shares a collective groan.

“Will somebody get it already!” groans Simmons from the floor.

Wash opens the door and is immediately greeted by Donut and Caboose, both of whom are carrying armfuls of bagels. “We brought breakfast!” chimes Donut.

“Can we join your secret club now?” Caboose says through a mouthful of food.

Grif appears out of nowhere and scoots Wash aside. “Thaaank you.” He takes the whole bag from Donut. Then Caboose. Then retreats to bed and manages to eat the first bagel in three bites.

After ripping the food from Grif’s arms and distributing it properly, the guys get all settled in and the Official Grifball Tournament Meeting finally begins. It takes half an hour for them to get past Sarge and Wash’s disagreement over who should be team captain of the feds’ team, mainly because Sarge doesn’t want to play grifball under a blue captain and Wash doesn’t think any of the strategies Sarge drew up are physically possible. The argument ends with Caboose sobbing while Wash swears a temporary oath to the Red Army over a robotics manual, and then the next item on the agenda is team names, which takes another twenty minutes and somehow again ends with more swearing over the robotics manual. Then Wash makes the mistake of giving Donut the floor to talk about uniform design, and:

Donut jumps to his feet. “Boy, are you guys gonna love this! Simmons, bring up the color wheel! Tucker, hit the lights!”

“Lights?” Wash echoes. “How long is this going to...oh my God.” The lights go off, the music comes on, and then there’s confetti everywhere.

Two solos, one rap break, and another dent in the wall later, the reds and blues finally emerge from Simmons’ room, picking glitter out of their hair and clothes. Wash is trying to reach some glitter that somehow got in his pants when he walks straight into Caboose’s back and stumbles, creating a domino effect behind him. He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but a glance past Caboose’s wide shoulders gives him his answer.

“Carolina,” Wash says an octave too high. He clears his throat. “What, uh… What’s up?”

Carolina looks at him, then at the line of reds and blues behind him. “You guys having fun in there?”

Silence.

“I swear, this is not as gay as it looks,” replies Grif.

“DId you need something?” Wash says, hurrying the conversation along.

Carolina sobers up a little. “I was just looking for you and Tucker. You’re needed in the war room.”

Wash exchanges a look with Tucker. The others look on nervously. “Did something happen?” Wash asks after a moment.

“You’ll see.” Ominous as always, Carolina nods in the direction of the war room and heads off without waiting. After a pause, Tucker and Wash follow, leaving the group to burst into whispers as soon as they’re far enough away.

As the two of them fall into step with Carolina, she eyes the both of them carefully. “So...am I going to get an explanation for all that, or…?”

Tucker’s responding grin is soft with sleep. “You want to short version or the fun version?”

“Whichever one makes the most sense would be nice.”

“Alright. Well, I guess you could say this all started when someone took the last steak at lunch yesterday. As usual, Grif started telling off the whole room....”

As Tucker spins his bullshit story, told with impressive confidence and energy for someone who had been drooling on Wash’s shoulder just an hour ago, Wash attempts to assess the situation. If this was about grifball, Carolina probably would’ve just busted them right then and there. Or maybe she’s quizzing Tucker now so she can catch him contradicting himself. Or maybe she’s bringing them to Kimball first so she can do all the yelling. He’s not sure if Carolina would be the type to rat them out, however. He’s aware that the plan is sort of a longshot, but with all the antics that go on in this base, a few harmless games aren’t that big a deal. The only reason why they’re hiding it at all is because Kimball doesn’t seem like she’s much in the mood for sportsmanship right now. And Carolina just. Never is.

“So I was like, ‘Whoa, dude, that’s a lot of liquor. How the hell are you gonna get rid of all that?’ And that’s when it hit me: party at Simmons’s place.”

“Uh huh…”

Washington watches Carolina’s expression as Tucker’s story unravels further and further. No, she doesn’t seem mad. Vaguely annoyed, maybe, but not pissed off. It must be something else. Could this possibly be about the war instead of more internal conflicts? God forbid they talk about the actual enemy for a change. Sometimes he catches that word in casual conversations made around the base; ‘the enemy’ this, ‘the enemy’ that. He can never be too sure if they’re talking about the pirates or each other. Increasingly, it has been the latter.

After walking down three halls sprinkled with half-awake soldiers, the three come to a halt in front of the war room. Tucker, meanwhile, wraps things up. “So yeah. That’s what you missed. You know, the funny thing is, the only thing those girls left behind was their panties. I don’t even remember them wearing panties in the first place.”

“Wait, what?” Wash can’t help but say aloud. Tucker nudges him. “Uh...I mean… No. Yeah. What the hell are you talking about?” Tucker shoots him a look of betrayal.

“I was just about to ask the same thing,” says Carolina.

“Man, weren’t either of you listening?”

Carolina raises an eyebrow. “Yes, and about ninety-eight percent of that either made no sense or just sounds impossible.”

Tucker shrugs. “Hey, makes more sense than half the shit we normally get up to.”

Carolina looks to Washington for help. “Donut threw a birthday party for Simmons and it didn’t end well,” he says.

“Ah. And I wasn’t invited? I’m not sure if I should be insulted or relieved.”

“Relieved. Definitely relieved.”

Carolina checks the two of them out and snorts. “Right.” With that and a pat on Wash’s glittery back, Carolina moves forward and the door slides open to receive her.

Once she’s inside, Tucker sighs. “Phew. Man. I guess the threesome was kinda overselling it. That or the naked mud wrestling.”

“Do I even want to know how I figured into this whole story?”

“Pretty sure you passed out on the floor after taking, like, two shots.”

“Great. Thanks for preserving my dignity.”

“Yeah, you don’t get a lot of that when you hang out with us.”

The atmosphere in the war room is tense when they arrive. Kimball is pointedly avoiding Doyle by reading something off a monitor, while Doyle fidgets awkwardly in a corner on the opposite side of the room. His entire body screams ‘I’m rescued’ once he sees them enter.

“Ah, yes, there they are! Good morning,” Doyle says cheerily. “Ms. Kimball and I were just...erm.” A pause. “Captain, are you...sparkling?”

“What? Aw, shit.” Tucker swats at his clothes in a vain attempt to clean the glitter off. Wash picks out a particularly stubborn bit on his collar, but Tucker bats him off as soon as he does it. “Dude, I got it.”

“You were literally touching everywhere but there.”

“We’ve got a problem,” says Kimball, cutting off Tucker’s response. “We found a pirate base near the coast that’s got supplies that could really help us through the next few weeks. It looks like some sort of supply tent. They’ve got food, medical tools--not enough for the whole army, but enough to keep our heads above water for some time.”

The three exchange looks. “I thought you said we have a problem. That sounds awesome,” says Tucker.

“So what’s the catch?” Washington asks.

Kimball sighs. “The catch is that we can’t get anywhere near them. We’ve already lost twelve men trying to take it.”

“Yikes,” comments Tucker.

“Which is why we need you to head out there and take it yourselves,” Doyle says.

Washington manages to contain his panic, but Tucker’s eyes fly wide open. The tournament starts tomorrow, and they’re the first game. If they leave now, they won’t make it back in time.

Before anyone can comment on Tucker’s reaction, he composes himself. “But wait, what makes you think we can do any better than the last twelve guys?” he asks.

“Well...the last time we attempted an ambush, our men went in guns ablazing,” Doyle explains, taking the bait. “So Ms. Kimball and I think it best that we try a more...subtle approach. A stealth mission, if you will. A four-man unit should suffice.”

Tucker snorts. “Stealth is one thing, but do you really think four guys can take down a whole camp?”

“If I remember correctly,” says Kimball, “you tried to do the same thing not too long ago.”

“Uh… Okay. You got me there.”

Carolina nods. “Right. So when do we leave?”

“Tucker and Washington will be heading out once our intel returns with some more details,” Kimball replies. “Carolina, you will be staying here to train the troops in Wash’s place.”

Washington and Carolina exchange a confused look. “But you said four people. We make three,” Carolina says slowly.

“Who else would we leave the troops to? Sarge?” Doyle asks back with a chuckle.

“And I doubt Tucker would be up for the job,” Kimball says with some bitterness. Tucker frowns and avoids her eyes.

“You could just leave Wash here. That’s what he’s been doing since day one. Why change it now?” Carolina asks with increasing suspicion.

Kimball responds patiently, “Well, since it’s a stealth mission, we need people who can fight in close quarters combat, so--”

“I do martial arts and have a cloaking device in my armor,” Carolina interrupts. “That’s not the real reason. What is it?”

There is a tense pause.

“I think what Agent Carolina is trying to say,” Washington says calmly, “is that this seems like a high level operation. Tucker is a great soldier, but he’s no Freelancer. He doesn’t have the specialized training we’ve received.” He looks at Tucker. “Not to throw you under the bus or anything. Just telling it like it is.”

“Pff, whatever. Comparing me to Carolina is like comparing a human to a bear.”

“So if what you’re looking for is a skilled fighter, you might want to reconsider…” Washington continues, but Doyle cuts him off.

“It’s not that simple,” Doyle says finally. He looks to Kimball, seemingly for permission, but she doesn’t respond. After a moment, he goes on anyway. “One of the terms in our truce is that every mission contains an equal number of Federal Army and New Republic officers. That way we are both pulling our weight. And since Agent Washington is the best hand-to-hand combat fighter in the Federal Army, and Captain Tucker is...suitable for the job, that is the team we have come up with, plus any officers they wish to take with them. You, however, are not officially part of either army, so.” Again, he clears his throat. “There it is.”

A moment. Carolina scoffs. “This is ridiculous.”

“Carolina,” Wash says carefully, though he knows it’s no use.

“I know, right? Just make it five people, who cares?” says Tucker.

“Tucker,” Wash sighs, though he knows _that’s_ no use, either.

“Just because we don’t send you on every single mission doesn’t mean we’re not working together, Carolina. Kindly get over yourself,” Kimball says lowly.

“Ho, shit!”

“Tucker!”

“This isn’t about me, Kimball,” Carolina responds, ignoring Tucker and Wash. “This is about you two abiding by some idiotic condition that continues to pit these sides against each other. Admit it. This isn’t because you want to pull the same weight. It’s because you don’t trust each other.”

“Great, you solved the mystery. We hate each other. Glad you finally figured it out,” Kimball quips. “And here’s another leap of logic for you: It’s because we hate each other that we can’t fight this war unless we have terms like this. So unless you pick a side now, you aren’t coming on this mission.”

Carolina gestures to Tucker and Wash. “None of us have picked a side! We risked our lives for you _because_ we care about _both_ sides!”

Doyle sighs. “It’s not just about loyalty, Agent Carolina. My men look up to and respect Agent Washington in a way they will never look up to and respect Captain Tucker. That’s just the way it is.”

“Uh, well, you’re not wrong, but that’s because Wash is, like, five times more badass than me,” Tucker interjects. At Wash’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Enough,” Kimball says over Tucker’s response. “This is not up for discussion. Tucker, Wash, you know your orders. Find someone you can bring with you before our intel comes back. Carolina...you know what to do. Dismissed.”

No one moves. All eyes are on Carolina.

“I said you’re dismissed.”

Still nothing. Wash moves to touch Carolina’s shoulder, but she abruptly shrugs him off and storms off on her own. Tucker and Wash follow shortly. Once they’re out the door, Carolina’s already several strides down the hall and shoving past poor half-awake soldiers who look like they don’t know what hit them. She promptly vanishes around a corner.

Tucker sighs and looks at Wash. “You think they’ll send us out before the game tomorrow?” he asks.

Washington shakes his head. “I don’t know. We can discuss it later at practice.”

“Right.”

Silence. “So. Five times, huh?”

“You are never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.”

***

Word of Washington’s temporary leave and Carolina’s substitution goes around fast. Nearly as fast is a rumor that says whoever impresses Agent Washington the most by the end of the day will get out of training with Carolina. This isn’t technically wrong; after all, Wash _is_ looking for a talented fed to bring with him on this mission, but it’s a high risk operation that is likely to get someone killed. Not that that bit of info would stop anyone, probably.

Unfortunately, his first choice has already been assigned to another mission, leaving him with half the entire base to choose from. As such, Wash gets ambushed by at least seven different feds looking to impress him with their stealth skills throughout the morning. One of them jumps out from the ceiling and ends up in the infirmary after Washington flips them over and slams them into a wall. Another one comes up to him in the bathroom to ask him to pick a card, any card. Even that big guy with the huge gun tries to show off during training by barrel rolling into another soldier who was in the middle of trying to shoot something far and tiny. The shot ends up just barely grazing Wash’s helmet.

“Jesus Christ! I could’ve hurt someone you big oaf!” the self-proclaimed sharpshooter says, shoving him off.

The gunman swings his machine gun in the sharpshooter’s direction. “Sorry,” he says shortly.

“H-hey! Stop pointing that thing at me!”

“What thing?”

“The giant fucking machine gun you’re holding! What else?!”

“Where am I supposed to point it? At myself?”

“Both of you, stop it!” Washington shouts over them. They immediately stand to attention, as do the onlookers standing by. “I am sick and tired of people squabbling over this stupid mission! I don’t want to hear anything else about it, is that clear?”

“But, sir--”

“I said, is that clear?”

A pause. “Yes, sir,” the two reply, dejected.

It’s not until after training is over that the gunman approaches Wash again, this time to ask if today’s performance will reflect negatively in his ‘permanent record.’ He indicates said record by pointing at Wash’s clipboard, and it takes all of Wash’s remaining patience not to strangle him.

“No,” he says, because he _definitely_ doesn’t have any patience to spare to explain the actual purpose of his clipboard. “Nothing is going on your...record. It’s fine. We all make mistakes.”

The gunman looks at Wash momentarily, then considers the clipboard in Wash’s hands before hanging his head. “No… We don’t.”

Wash blinks. For a moment, he’s back on The Mother of Invention and Connie is walking away from him. He holds her helmet in his hands, thoughts of lines and filtering processes and _mistakes, some of us very specifically make mistakes_ , bouncing around in his head. The scoreboard glares at him from behind the glass.

“That’s not…” Washington shakes his head. The gunman’s already out the door, dragging his feet as he goes. The sharpshooter follows in a similar fashion.

Is that what they think this is? Washington looks down at his clipboard, at all the numbers scratched into it over time. A permanent record? He had never seen those numbers as scores before. He had never considered that others might see otherwise.

“This is a _selection process_ , Wash,” he remembers Connie saying to him. “I don't know for what, but--but if you're not at the top of that board, you're not worth _anything_ to him.”

He remembers wondering how she could have possibly gotten it into her head that any of that was true. He remembers feeling bewildered; insulted, almost.

A bit like now, really.

***

“If this is about the time I got sloppy joes all over the shooting range, I can get more car fresheners to clear out the smell,” is the first thing Bitters says after receiving the news about Carolina. Washington isn’t really sure if he means it; even when he’s kissing ass, he sounds sarcastic.

“That’s not it.” Wash pauses. “And stop stealing from the motor pool.”

Bitters nods at Jensen. “It’s not stealing if we’re taking them from all the cars she crashed.”

Washington sniffs and looks at the pile of tree-shaped ornaments scattered around the shooting range like fallen leaves. “Well, that explains the burning smell…”

“Oh, _that’s_ what that was? I thought those were candles.” Palomo inhales and sighs. “Piney.”

At the joyful little hum that follows, Jensen and Bitters exchange a look. “What’s got you all happy?” Jensen asks.

“I’m glad you asked, Katie.” Palomo pounds his chest. “While you guys sit around and do the same-old song and dance around the training room, _I’m_ going on a special mission with Captain Tucker.”

Out of the three lieutenants, Smith is the only one who congratulates him. The other two react with the basic sentiment of ‘go fuck yourself.’ Washington, meanwhile, sincerely hopes he didn’t hear that right.

“You mean the mission I’m going on.”

“Mhm!”

“The big stealth mission.”

“A-yup! Captain Tucker told me about it this morning! It is going to be awesome! Just you, me, some other guy, and Tucker, fighting crime, saving the world, getting the girl. No big D. Except my own. Am I right? Ha-ha! High five!”

The lieutenants just stare.

“Explain,” is the first thing Wash says when he sees Tucker at training.

Tucker looks at him quizzically from where he is stretching. “Uh, you’re gonna have to be way more specific. Explain what? Life? Girls? Math? Eugh, please tell me it’s not math.”

Washington sets his things down by the door. “Why is Palomo coming with us on this mission?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s all I got,” Tucker says, moving on to his hamstrings. “I lost two of my men trying to get info on you guys, remember?”

Wash stands across from Tucker and mirrors him. “They never assigned you someone new?”

“Nah. I mean, they let me boss around all the rebels on big missions, but since this one’s really small, my options are a lot more limi--whoa!” Tucker nearly loses his balance, but Wash catches him at the last minute with his free hand. Tucker looks him over. “Showoff.” Wash just smirks.

After the usual stretches and warmups comes the actual lesson, which, for the occasion, is stealth. Washington stands facing the door while Tucker makes an effort to sneak up on him, which should make the exercise a very quiet one, but somehow they manage to carry a conversation through it, anyway.

“I talked to some of the scouts who have visited the site, and from what I can tell, we have about twenty-four hours before intel gets back to us.” Washington ducks and flips Tucker over his head.

“Ow.” Tucker accepts Wash’s hand and gets up, rubbing his back. “Okay, so we’ll have the game tonight.”

Wash raises his eyebrows at Tucker as he walks past. Once Tucker is behind him, he turns back around. “Tonight? We haven’t even practiced once. Why can’t we just--?” He parries Tucker’s attempted blow to his side and makes to counterattack, but Tucker slips away. Tucker then goes for another strike, but Wash turns around and catches his wrist. He hums. “A bit sloppy, but better. And don’t be cheeky. You can’t do another surprise attack literally seconds after the first one.”

“But it’s a _surprise_ attack.” Washington just gives him a look. “Fine, whatever.” Tucker forces his wrist out of Wash’s hand. “Anyway, why do we need to practice? Let’s just wing it.”

“You want to wing it on a livestream that will be broadcast to the whole base?”

“Sure, why not? We wing it all the time. We did it with the Meta, we did it with Tex, we did it when we came to rescue you…”

Washington blinks at him. “Wait, you came to rescue us without a plan?” Tucker just shrugs and heads on back. Again, Wash faces the door. “I guess I’m not surprised. You guys don’t do very well under pressure, but when the time comes, you’re pretty quick on your feet. It’s kind of impressive.” Silence. Tucker’s presence is very obviously there, but it’s difficult to get a read on what kind of move he’s trying to make.

He waits. The silence stretches on.

Then he feels it, Tucker springing forward for a tackle--and falling flat on his face when Wash sidesteps it. Tucker groans.

“Almost got me that time,” says Wash, trying for sincere but unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. Tucker holds up a middle finger. “Come on, get up.”

Tucker rolls onto his back and sits up. “But you see what I mean, right?” he says, his face all red from the impact. Wash swears he sees tile marks. “We could totally make it work. And besides, it’s just a stupid game. Nobody cares if we win or lose.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Washington helps him to his feet and manages a straight face when Tucker’s face ends up being too close for comfort. “I’d say, um…” He swallows. Right. Words.

For a moment, Tucker eyes him up in a terribly sinful way that will definitely haunt Wash in his dreams, and Wash braces himself for--something. Tucker’s hands roaming where they shouldn’t, his fingers traveling up his arm, his breath hot on Wash’s lips. But it never comes. Tucker slips out of his space and keeps his hands where Wash can see them. For some reason, Wash’s first instinct is to be annoyed.

It takes a moment for him to figure out why Tucker just keeps staring at him like that. He shakes his head. “I’d say, uh. I’d say each side is equally excited to see their team win,” he says finally, kicking himself. He hates how incoherent Tucker makes him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tucker says with an unreadable expression. He shrugs. “Whatever. We’re both gonna do our best, anyway. And it’s better than pushing it back, like, a week.”

“Right. You’re right. We should...do that.” Wash coughs. He still hasn’t gotten that verbal functioning thing down. After a moment, Tucker heads to the back of the room, his face a complete mystery.

Washington takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. It disappoints and disgusts him a little that he can feel a bit of a thrill rushing through him, his skin still hot where Tucker’s eyes were. He still can’t tell if he’s being selfish or selfless anymore; if he’s doing this for himself or for Tucker. He had checked the numbers earlier, and while Tucker was by far the most improved, there were several others who have improved just as much. To be fair, it’s not just him; Kimball and Doyle tend to send the Blood Gulch crew on the more important missions, despite their own men having been in this war for far longer. And it makes sense, since a mission led by a Federal Army captain and a New Republic captain would probably run into some internal issues. But he can understand how a federal soldier could see all this as special treatment; could be led to resent the reds and blues after seeing them steal the spotlight time and time again, even in training. Not that an army should even think in terms of spotlight at all, but if that’s the way it is, then...

He feels Tucker behind him and can’t react fast enough. Tucker yanks him in by the shoulder and presses something against his lower back. It feels like one of Wash’s knife sheaths. He _hopes_ it’s one of his knife sheaths.

“Man, you really let your guard down,” Tucker says in his ear, sending shudders through him. Tucker’s breath feels hot on his ear, his neck…

Washington steps on his foot and elbows him in the gut while he’s distracted. Tucker wheezes and lets go. “Ow! What the hell, Wash!”

“You let yours down, too,” Wash retorts, far more breathless and less snarky than anticipated.

There’s a flash of something odd in Tucker’s eyes before he folds over and leans against the wall to recover. “Ugh… Okay, give me a minute…”

After a moment, Wash coughs and rubs his neck awkwardly. “Sorry. I overdid it.”

Tucker lifts his head and shakes it off. “Nah, it’s cool. I’d rather get my ass kicked by you than some space pirate out in the field.” He straightens, looking much more like himself, and heads back to the back of the room. “C’mon, I think I almost got it.”

“Right…” Washington turns back around and forces himself to remove his hand from his neck, where the skin still tingles from Tucker’s breath. He doesn’t think at all about all the proximity of Tucker’s mouth to his skin, or the low, intimate timbre of the voice in his ear.

The silence that follows is anything but comfortable.

***

The excitement doesn’t fully hit him until he’s all geared up in red armor, armed with his hammer and leading his team out onto the field. Bright stadium lights manned by some of the lieutenants bear down on them as they enter. A grifball awaits the teams in the middle of the room, nestled inside the spawner. A little red light blinks on inside Washington’s helmet, indicating the beginning of a live broadcast to one of the base servers. The gravity hammer hums against his back, and his hands itch to wield it.

Meanwhile, the blue team enters from the opposite end, Tucker leading the pack with his energy sword sitting idle on his hip. The four of them look a little strange, clad in their cobalt armor; it’s almost like watching four different Cabooses heading straight for him. Judging by appearances, however, the one trying to amp up the crowd--read: the lighting crew--is Tucker, the one struggling under the weight of the hammer is Grif, the one facing the wrong way is Caboose, and the one cowering under the attention is Simmons.

Both teams meet halfway down the field. Donut coos and crows over how well the uniforms turned out, Sarge grumbles something about dirty blues, and Lopez says something that sounds like a curse.

“Alright,” comes Church’s voice over the radio. He pops up over the grifball. “Everybody check your...uh...your…” He trails off. “Huh. This is kind of confusing.”

“What do you mean?” Washington asks.

Church whips his head around to look at everyone. “I mean, all of you guys look exactly the same. Except for Wash. Yellow accents kinda give it away. Also Caboose still has that fucking stupid helmet on.”

“If my helmet was stupid, would it come with free gum?! Huh, would it?! Someone tell me if it would!”

“Caboose, shut up. Everyone else, do a roll call or something. Not knowing who you are is kinda freaking me out,” Church says, eyeing them all.

“Sup.”

“Present!”

“Past… Wait! I want to be the future.”

“Can I not be here?”

“Guys, I think he meant one at a time--”

“Get on with it, numbnuts!”

“I am ready for action!”

“ _Aqui_.”

“Oh my God, stop, stop, stop!” Church shouts over the chatter that follows. “You guys are fucking morons. Just say your name in a calm and orderly--”

Again, everyone speaks at once.

“Okay, you know what? Fuck you guys. You’re lucky I’m a fucking computer.” Church blips for a brief moment. “There. I’ve updated the program. Check your screens for the nametags. Everyone got it?”

A quick survey of the room shows names glowing above everybody’s heads. In the corner of Washington’s eye, he also observes a little score box on the bottom righthand side. It takes a few moments for everyone to find everything, and even longer for Caboose, but once that’s settled, Church continues.

“Alright, so everyone knows the rules, right? No guns, no swords, just the gravity hammers. Once you’ve been hit by a gravity hammer, you get knocked out and pinned down to the floor for about ten to fifteen seconds before you can play again. First to five goals wins. Orange guy’s the guy with the ball, ball explodes in the goal, yada yada. Any questions?”

Caboose immediately raises his hand. Church doesn’t call on him for a moment. He sighs. “Caboose?”

“I have a question about the hammer thingies.”

“The gravity hammers.”

“Yes. I would like to know if we can use the gravity hammers to play gravity whack-a-mole.”

“No questions, great. Have fun, guys.”

With that, Church disappears and the guys step forward to shake hands. Caboose shakes so hard he nearly tears Lopez’s arm off, Sarge so hard he nearly squeezes the life out of Grif, and Simmons so flimsily that his arm flops as Donut shakes his hand. Wash’s handshake with Tucker, meanwhile, is more like a firm handhold than anything.

“You nervous?” Wash asks.

Tucker snorts. “Dude, your team is all reds. They couldn’t even steal a flag from us for, like, years.”

“And your team is two reds and Caboose. I’d say that makes us pretty even.”

“Pff, whatever. Bring it on.”

As Tucker releases his hand and gives a little wave, Wash lets out a little sigh of relief. Their practice session had ended with a tense silence, but it seems that Tucker has gotten over whatever it was that had been plaguing him. For now, anyway.

Once the two sides are on opposite sides of the room, the grifball rises into the air and the countdown begins. A flash of yellow numbers come up on his screen: _3...2...1… Begin!_

 _“New ball spawned,_ ” says Delta’s voice, and it takes a moment for Wash to remember that this is part of the scorekeeping program installed into their helmets. It isn’t even really Delta; just his voice reading out data and responding to commands.

The teams race toward the center, Sarge shouting something at Donut and Donut racing up ahead of the pack. Meanwhile on the blue team, Caboose charges straight ahead and, after a word from Tucker, aims right for Donut. Washington immediately heads over to run interference. The gravity hammer sparks and crackles excitedly as he draws it from his back and swings, the force of it kicking back against him as pure white energy surges toward Caboose. The energy force manages to capture his legs, binding him to the floor just in time for him to narrowly miss Donut, who shrieks, dodges, and captures the ball. As he runs, an orange color drips down his armor and his movements begin to slow just slightly.

 _“We have the ball,”_ Delta intones.

Donut shrieks in Grif’s voice several more times as Tucker attempts to whack him with the hammer to no avail. “Wait a minute! This _is_ gravity whack-a-mole!” Caboose says gleefully from the floor, the force of the missed attacks pinning him more and more against the floor. After a while, Donut manages to maneuver out of the way and breaks right, heading straight into Simmons and Grif.

From the other end of the blues’ side, Lopez waves his arms. “ _Láncelo a mí_.”

“Got it!” chimes Grif’s voice with more energy than he has ever exerted.

“ _¿Usted me entendió? Es un milagro_.”

Donut throws the ball across the room, but the ball dips too early and is hampered even further by a blue hand whacking it out of the air. It hits Grif’s helmet and scuttles to the floor, prompting Grif, Tucker, and Simmons to dive for it at once. There’s a scuffle and a confusion of complaints; then, one of them suddenly turns orange.

“ _Enemy has the ball_.”

“ _Por supuesto._ ”

“We’re on the same fucking team, assholes!” yells the new Grif; a glance at his nametag indicates that it’s Tucker. “I said ‘dibs’ like five--oh fuck!”

The force from Washington’s hammer just barely misses Tucker, who tosses the ball to the pair of blues standing idly by. One of them shouts ‘dibs’ shortly before catching it and running the other way. Washington makes to follow, but the _whoosh_ of an incoming hammer forces his attention. He blocks with his own hammer and struggles to resist as Tucker presses against him.

Tucker turns his head to holler across the room, “Cover him!”

“Yeah, Simmons, what the hell! I’m outnumbered here!” Grif hollers as well, carrying the ball past the halfway point shortly before getting ambushed by both Sarge and Lopez.

“I’m working on it!” Simmons yells back as he fends off Donut.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you!” Caboose says from the floor. He tries to get up. “Oww. Nevermind!”

Meanwhile, Washington forces Tucker off. “Seems like winging it isn’t working out for you so far,” he says smoothly.

Tucker recovers and holds up his hammer. “Might wanna get your helmet checked out, Wash, because I'm pretty sure my team's the one with the ball.”

"Mm, well. Not for long."

The forces of their hammers against each other cancel each other out. Wash swings once, twice, three times, but Tucker manages to block him each time. The fourth swing knocks the hammer out of Tucker’s hand, and while he’s distracted, Washington nails him in the torso. Tucker groans.

“What was that you said earlier? Five times as--?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Wash grins and turns just in time to see Caboose rise from the floor. Simmons, too, gets up from where Donut evidently nailed him down. “Oh my God! That was such a nice nap.” Caboose looks around. “What did I miss?”

“Get them off me, dumbass!” Grif cries from his fetal position on the floor, covering the ball with his body as Sarge and Lopez kick at him. Donut cheers them on from the side.

“Do I hear a pretty please?”

“Pretty please! Hottest fuckin’ please! Playboy model bikini issue please! Just do it!”

Caboose and Simmons move forward to help, but Washington manages to catch Simmons’s leg. Simmons yelps and falls over, but Caboose continues on, shouldering past Donut and picking Sarge up off his feet. Sarge squirms and yells as Caboose performs a suplex. Wash can’t help but gape a little; seems like he really _has_ been learning a few things from Carolina.

“I’ll avenge you, Sarge!” Donut cries as he runs towards Caboose, who has barely raised his hand ‘hello’ before Donut smacks him with the gravity hammer. To his credit, it only takes two seconds for him to react this time.

Meanwhile, Washington arrives at the scene and makes a vain attempt to get Lopez off Grif long enough to flip him over himself. Lopez stubbornly continues to torment him, however, despite Wash’s insistence.

“Oh, yeah, Lopez just likes beating up Grif sometimes,” Simmons chimes in helpfully. “We think it’s some sort of bug. Either that or he’s sentient enough to know that Grif’s an idiot.”

“I heard that!” Grif yells.

“Well, the point of the game _is_ to harm Grif…” Wash muses. He pauses. He looks at Simmons.

“Uh…” Simmons chuckles nervously. “Have I told you that that red armor looks really slimming on you?”

“Thanks.”

Simmons ducks just in time to miss Wash’s hammer. As a result, his hammer slams right into Donut’s, who apparently had also had the same idea of eliminating Simmons. The unexpected impact sends shocks up their arms; Washington shivers at the sensation. While they’re distracted, Simmons rolls out from under their interlocked weapons and knocks Donut’s legs out from under him. Simmons rejoices with a triumphant ‘ha!’ only to get cut short as he just barely dodges another blast from Wash’s hammer. He continues on like that for a while, dodging Wash’s hammer with increasingly high pitched screeches, rolling around on the floor.

“Somebody help me already!” Simmons cries out.

“Man down! Man down!” says Sarge. Washington picks his head up to see a newly freed Tucker standing over Sarge, who has been pinned down. Before Wash can digest all this, however, his legs are knocked out from underneath him, and then Tucker’s delivering a finishing blow into his chest. He hits the floor with a winded _oof_.

Simmons is breathless and panting when Tucker helps him to his feet. “I think...I saw...my life...flash...before...my eyes,” he says in between breaths.

“Come on, we gotta help Grif!” Tucker says urgently. There’s a moment where Wash can’t help but admire the leaderly quality to his voice. Then Tucker looks at him and nods. “Sup.” Wash can practically _hear_ him wink. He rolls his eyes. Moment over.

Washington squirms and can only watch as Tucker and Simmons fight Lopez off Grif, then usher him towards the goal. Donut makes an attempt to interfere again, but Caboose manages to block his way long enough for Grif to make it to the goal. The ball explodes.

 _“Enemy team scored_ ,” Delta announces.

The blue team celebrates loudly, and the restraints on Wash’s body dissipate. He hops to his feet and cracks his neck.

“ _Ball incoming_ ,” Delta continues, but the blues aren’t listening. Caboose is carrying Tucker around and screaming. Grif is sobbing in relief. Washington exchanges a look with Sarge, who nods and heads for the center of the field.

“Wait, what did he say?” says Simmons. The celebration continues. “Guys! Wait!"

As Simmons attempts to calm his team down, the reds gather at the center. Sarge claps Wash on the shoulder and nods at the ball spawning device. “Grab it and go. We’ll hold ‘em off,” he mutters.

Washington assesses the distance between the ball and the goal. “You sure about this?”

Sarge nods. “Positive.” A pause. “Fifty-percent positive. The other fifty percent says we might all get shot down immediately. Could go either way.”

“That’s comforting,” Wash says flatly.

“What, you want me to read you a bedtime story or somethin’?”

“Don’t worry, Wash!” Donut chimes in. “If anyone tries to take you from behind, we’ll give them a real pounding!”

“ _En serio, ¿por qué siempre habla de sexo?”_

“Yeah, how _did_ we get so awesome?!”

 _“Ball has spawned_ ,” announces Delta. Washington swipes the new ball and Delta immediately adds, _“You have the ball.”_

“Oh, shit!” comes Tucker’s voice as Wash zips past him. “Guys, focus! Get him!”

The grifball adjustments hinder his progress a little. His armor weighs down on him heavier than usual, and he occasionally struggles not to trip over his feet. Somehow he runs out of breath faster, sweats more, aches more, and God, is this really how Grif lives his day to day life?

The reds cheer when Washington slams the grifball into the goal and hops away in time to dodge the explosion. There’s a round of high fives whilst the blues sulk about it, and then there’s another grifball spawning, and then there’s a rush to grab it, and then the reds have it, and they take it down the court, and Kimball stands at the door, and Washington blocks Simmons as he tries to intercept Lopez’s pass to--

He stops.

Kimball. At the door. And Doyle, too.

“Wash, catch!” The ball hits him in the head. “Dagnabit! What in Sam Hell are you doin’ just standin’ around lookin’ at… Oh. Uh.” Sarge clears his throat. “Hello.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Hi.”

***

Kimball’s office is pretty tight on space, especially with all eight of them squeezed onto one side of the desk. There is some grumbling as the guys attempt to get comfortable, negotiating elbows and knees and raising arms at weird angles so everyone can fit. Wash, for his part, pokes his head out from under Donut’s elbow and over Caboose’s head while his body is stuck between Grif and Lopez. His arms are somewhat stuck where they are, but thankfully he deactivated his helmet cam long before they arrived at the office. He had passed down the message of ‘turn off your cameras’ down the line of reds and blues, too, so at least this lecture won’t be broadcast to the entire base. Instead, they get to have this uncomfortable moment all to themselves.

Once they’re all settled in, there is a silence. Someone coughs.

“Well, this is cozy,” Grif comments from somewhere in the knot of red and blue armor. Simmons shushes him.

“Where do I even begin?” Kimball shakes her head. “Of all times...of _all times_ to goof around and act like idiots, you choose now? Now, when our supply lines are cut, our entire planet is at war with a _giant space corporation_ , our men are forced into close quarters with people they’ve despised their entire lives? Had you come to me with this a month ago, I wouldn’t give a rats’ _ass_ what you people did in your spare time, even on the night before a mission.” Here she pins Tucker and Washington with a glare. “But _now_? How much time and resources did you people waste on this? How much of my men’s attention have you drained for this stupid game? This isn’t just some poorly organized game of kickball; this is an entire operation you held behind my back--and for what? For the sake of letting off steam? Were you getting bored with all the good men dying out there for our cause?”

“Vanessa,” Doyle says suddenly.

She turns on him. “Don’t. I’m not. Done.” Doyle says nothing.

“Dude, chill the fuck out,” Tucker says before she can continue, however. All heads turn to him.

“Excuse me?”

Wash tries to meet his eyes, but his torso is stuck where it is. “Tucker.”

“We were just trying to raise the morale,” Tucker goes on, either not hearing him or not caring. “All we’ve been thinking about for weeks is war this, war that, people dying, blah blah blah. And people _keep_ dying, and they keep failing, and the least we could do is give them something cool to come home to at the end of the day instead of more of the same people screaming and arguing all the goddamn time. I mean, if they’re going to be fighting, anyway, at least let them smack each other around for a while and get it all out while they can.”

Kimball rises. “You haven’t been here as long as I have, Tucker, so I forgive you your naivety. But come _on_. Use your brain. Did you think that letting these people beat each other up a couple of nights a week would have made up for all the lives that were lost? All that time wasted? The goodbyes we never got to have? You think that all just goes away with a touchdown or some lousy bragging rights?”

“Man, I never said I was gonna end world hunger,” Tucker says with that rising bitterness that Wash knows all too well. “I just wanted to help get everyone off each other’s nerves, since you guys have been too busy yelling at each other to figure out how to do that much.”

A few of the ex-sim soldiers let out an ‘ooh.’ It concerns Wash that Tucker doesn’t backtrack to make a comment about getting everyone off.

“Tucker,” he repeats, louder this time. Tucker meets his eyes briefly, but looks away when Kimball begins to speak again.

“You should keep your nose out of our politics, Tucker. It doesn’t suit you,” is all Kimball has to say to that.

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t think--”

“Tucker!” Washington bursts out, and finally Tucker looks at him. For once, he doesn’t keep going. He waits. After a tense moment, Wash forces himself to take a deep breath. “Just...stop.”

There’s a brief look of hurt before Tucker’s mouth thins out into a straight line. He continues to not say anything, but he doesn’t budge, either.

“Well then. This is getting us nowhere,” Kimball says after a moment. “If that’s all you have to say, then all of you are dismissed. I’ll figure out what to do with you in the morning.”

“Ah, um--yes. As shall I,” Doyle adds quietly.

There’s a moment where no one really knows what to do. Wash’s eyes are locked onto Tucker, who glares back at him in return. Eventually, Tucker shoves his way out the door, ignoring the yelps of protest in his wake. Once he’s gone, the rest trickle out slowly, muttering awkward ‘sorry’s and ‘my bad’s as they untangle and fit themselves through the door.

After a moment’s silence outside Kimball’s door, everyone exchanges some defeated looks with each other. Wash sighs. “I...I should go see if Tucker’s okay.”

“You might wanna leave that one alone for a while,” Sarge says soberly. “Didn’t seem like he was in the mood to talk.”

“Yeah, and I’m not sure letting Agent Melodrama comfort Captain Drama Queen is such a good idea,” Grif adds.

“Can it, Grif.”

“Just saying.”

Wash hesitates, considering. Tucker seemed like he was mad at him in particular, but maybe he’ll get over it once he has calmed down a little. Then again, the last time he tried to let the blues handle things on their own, Tucker blew up at him constantly and Caboose...well. Almost killed them all.

“I’ll just check up on him,” he says finally, ignoring the skeptic looks he gets as he heads down the hall.

“Wait, what do we do with all the equipment we made?” Simmons calls out to him as he walks away. “Should we keep it?”

“Just set it aside in storage for now,” Wash calls back over his shoulder.

“And later?”

“Kimball and Doyle will probably order us to dispose of it.”

The group erupts into noisy complaint as he leaves, Donut in particular lamenting the loss of so many balls with such firm grips. Wash finds that he doesn’t have the energy to deal with them now, however. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with anyone but Tucker, Tucker and his stupid pride and that mouth that never shuts up.

It takes a while to find him. He’s not in his room, though his armor is, and he’s not at the mess hall or the armory, either. He ends up finding Tucker in the gym, pouring all his energy into a punching bag that looks like it has seen one too many fists. All the equipment has that look, like it had been the latest technology once upon a time and is now getting weary from overuse. Being here, especially at this hour, especially while watching Tucker exert so much effort into ripping this bag open, makes Wash feel incredibly tired. He wishes that this could be as simple as a hand on his shoulder and a quiet ‘I’m sorry,’ but somehow Tucker gets more and more complicated the more he gets to know him.

Wash removes his helmet and sets it aside. Time for some real talk.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he says, the impact of Tucker’s fists nearly drowning out his voice. Tucker doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I know you care a lot about these people. That’s why you wanted to work things out between them. And now you’re….here. Working out. Haha.”

This time Tucker does stop, but only to look at Wash like he just took a shit in the middle of the room. Wash swallows. “Sorry.”

Tucker snorts and resumes beating the crap out of some imaginary asshole. “You should stick to being that hardass nobody likes. Save the comedy act for your nine cats or something.”

The remark bites a little more than it should. “Tucker…”

“What, Wash?” Tucker stops and finally turns his body toward him, ripping the gloves off his hands and throwing them anywhere. “What are you going to tell me this time? ‘You did your best, but your best just wasn’t good enough’? ‘Don’t let the man get you down’? How about ‘I support you all the way’? You wanna try that one again, you fuckin’ hypocrite?”

“You know that I’m not the one you should be mad at, right?” Wash says patiently.

“Dude, you are literally the _only_ one I’m pissed at right now.”

Wash lets out an incredulous noise. Okay then, fuck patience. “Explain.”

“I mean, you never take my side. It’s always ‘calm down, Tucker,’ ‘listen to what they have to say, Tucker,’ ‘chill the fuck out, Tucker’--at least with Kimball I know what to expect, but you said you supported this plan the moment I said it! I thought you’d back me up on this! For once!”

Washington laughs. He doesn’t even mean to. He laughs. “Your problem with me is that I don’t support you enough? What did you want me to do, scream at her?”

“I don’t know! How about next time you work on _not_ making me look like a fucking jackass?” Tucker says, getting into his space. He’s hardly a threat without his armor, however. “The least you could’ve done was say that you agreed with me. Why did I have to be the only one defending my idea? Why did _you_ have to go ahead and treat me like a fucking lunatic?”

“Maybe so you could take responsibility for your own actions?” Wash scoffs, disgusted. “You know, you are acting like such a spoiled brat.”

“Great, so now I’m a fucking kid.”

“You are!” Wash advances on him, gesticulating, walking him into a wall. “Do you have any idea how much you get away with, just because you’re from Blood Gulch? Just because you’re Lavernius Tucker? Do you have any idea how much _I_ have let you get away with because I believed in you?”

Tucker utters a low ‘oh’ that turns into a bitter laugh. “So we’re going there now. Pretty low blow, bro.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you told me everything would be fine with us after--” Tucker struggles with his words, chokes on them. “-- _that_ shit happened, but you keep pushing me away! You say you’ll support me, and then you don’t. You say we can still be friends, but then we’re not. It’s like I can’t trust anything you fucking say!”

“Of course you can trust me! We _are_ friends!” Wash says desperately.

“Then how about you fucking act like it?!”

“I’m trying!”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a pretty shitty job!”

Washington throws his hands in the air and groans. “Ugh, I am _sick_ of you taking me for granted!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sick of _you_ telling me you support me and then stabbing me in the back!”

“Oh, enough with the melodramatics! You know I care about you!”

“If you care so much, why don’t you--mmf!”

Mouthwash. He tastes like mouthwash, for some reason. And he smells like the rest of this room: sweaty, musky, altogether vaguely unpleasant. But wow, he tastes like mouthwash. That was the last thing he had expected.

His hand is cupped around the back of Tucker’s head, the other hand pressed against the wall. He kisses him, bites down on his lower lip, thinks intimate thoughts when he gets a low moan out of it. He thinks about how many times he has stopped himself from doing this, how many times he has forced himself to look away, how many times he swallowed his guilt and shrunk from Tucker's touch, how _fucking ridiculous_ it all feels now because clearly Tucker doesn't give a fuck and no one gives a fuck and he could keep him away with a ten foot pole at all times and people would still think they're fucking, so fuck it. _Fuck it._ He needs this, needs Tucker to know how much he cares, how hard he's been trying, how fucking frustrating it has been.

It doesn’t take long for Tucker to kiss back, locking his arms around his waist and holding him there, like he’d ever pull away. After a while, Tucker mutters something about pointy armor, the vibration of his words against Wash’s lips prompting him to kiss Tucker harder until Tucker starts saying ‘ow’ repeatedly and the actual message registers.

“Sorry,” Wash mutters, pressing a gentle kiss against his cheek. Tucker's breath stutters. He looks dazed when Wash withdraws.

Wash clumsily claws at his own armor, relieved when Tucker finally joins in and helps him out. They get down to Wash’s waist before getting distracted again, because Wash wants to pin Tucker’s wrist to the wall and shove his tongue down his throat, so they do that, and then Tucker is pulling at zippers and Wash is pulling at shirts and Tucker is hungrily nipping at Wash’s neck and Caboose is quietly tiptoeing back into the hall and Tucker is-- _fuck_.

Wash pulls away so fast he almost gets whiplash. “Caboose! How long have you been standing there?!”

“Umm.” Caboose looks between the two of them. “Oh...um. Oh. Oh no.”

“Caboose, get the fuck out!” Tucker snaps.

“I’ll just come back later,” Caboose agrees, nodding quickly.

“No,” Wash says before he can make a break for it. “Caboose. Stay.”

Tucker gapes at him. “Are you fucking serious?!”

“Tucker, not now. Caboose, what did you need?”

“Oh, uhhh, I’m okay, thanks for asking,” Caboose chirps as Tucker sighs and starts pulling his shirt back on.

Tucker brushes himself off and looks at Caboose. “I swear to God, if you came in here for literally _nothing_ \--”

“Okay, well, you see, I actually had a question,” Caboose says calmly, “but I don’t think you’d really like the question I had to ask. You’d get mad at me, maybe yell at me some more, and be really mean, and I don’t think I’d like that very much.”

Wash tries to look reassuring. He’s not sure if it really works that well when he’s half out of his armor and clearly disheveled. “It’s fine, Caboose. We won’t get mad.”

Tucker eyes Wash up and down. It occurs to him that his Kevlar suit is still open. “Speak for yourself.”

Wash pointedly zips himself back up. "Fine. _I_ won't get mad."

“You promise?” Caboose says cautiously.

Wash nods. “Promise.”

“Okay...” Caboose clears his throat. “So, um. How do I turn the camera off in my helmet?”

Wash and Tucker exchange a look, confused. Then enlightened. Then horrified.

“You mean…the one you’re wearing right now?” Wash says slowly.

“Um. Yeeeah. I mean, I know you said we were supposed to turn it off a while ago, but I didn’t really know how. One time I thought I did it, but it turned out I just turned off the radio, and then I didn’t know how to turn it back on, and then I did, and then by the time I fixed it everyone had gone to bed already, so I came looking for you guys, but you were busy, so I tried to leave, but then you guys--”

“So you’re telling me,” Wash interrupts, “that when you walked in on us just now, what you saw was broadcasted to a live server somewhere in the base.”

Caboose just stares.

“You caught us making out and now it’s on military TV.”

“Oh...ohhh. Oh, yeah. I guess I. Did do that. Yes.”

Silence. For a long time, Wash tries to find words but comes up empty. Tucker is equally silent.

“It’s...it’s a button on the side of the helmet, buddy.”

“Here?”

“No.”

“Here?”

“No.”

“...Here?”

“Yes.”

“Ooh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops, let's try this again...
> 
> Hi everyone! If you're one of the people who saw this chapter appear and disappear, sorry about that haha. I had to fix something and in my panic I deleted the whole thing instead of just editing it. So, enjoy a slightly extended scene at the end ;)
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long to write. April was busy for me because I had finals at the end of the month, and then in May, well... Since this chapter is one of the more important ones, I pretty much worked all month to figure out how it should go. It is still not perfect and I'm sure there are some things I overlooked, but this draft has been sitting on my drive for ages so I think this is about as good as it'll get for now.
> 
> So, explanatory notes:  
> *Lopez's dialogue: "Here." / "Throw it to me." / "You understood me? It is a miracle." / "Of course." / "Seriously, why is he always talking about sex?"  
> Again, the translations are from SpanishDict and I'm not very fluent, so please correct me if I'm wrong! And thank you Kryptonita for the corrections from last chapter :)  
> *I modified some of the grifball rules so that people don't, you know, actually die :P I made the hammers just pin people down instead of killing them, for instance, and I removed the energy swords since that is supposed to be unique to Tucker in this universe.
> 
> Hope I didn't miss anything! I had to rewrite this end note because I'm a dumbass heh. And as always, thanks so much for all your feedback!


	7. Lesson Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people and beliefs are tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, everybody!
> 
> I am so, so incredibly sorry it has taken so long to come out with this chapter. I have always 100% intended to finish this fic, so trust me, this has never been in danger of being left incomplete. And! Despite some roadblocks and so many rewrites that the final product is almost incomparable to the first few attempts, I have finally, FINALLY gotten this thing publishable. Thank you guys so SO much for all your comments and encouragement, and I mean ALL of them. And as always, I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

There are empty Cheetos bags and beer cans strewn across the floor when an unsuspecting fed comes in for his first night shift. It’s difficult to see with only the monitors serving as a light source, but since the soldiers sitting in front of him aren’t immediately noticeable in bright white armor, he can only assume that they are rebels. That would explain the trash, but not the half-assed banner drooping over the monitors, or the suspicious rise and fall in that mound of Doritos bags and oh God that’s someone taking a nap in a pile of garbage.

“What...what happened here?” is the question he eventually formulates. 

The two rebels situated at the security monitors look at him quizzically. The one wearing green war paint--or is it mint? Aqua?--scrunches his face in disdain upon recognizing the fed’s armor. “The fuck do  _ you _ want, fed?”

The fed glowers back. “I’ve got the night shift. Now answer my question.”

With an infuriatingly smug and languid grin, the green guy leans back in his chair and spreads his arms wide. “Well, you are looking at the aftermath of only  _ the _ best grifball-viewing party ever, of all time!” He belches.

There’s a noise in the corner of the room that sounds like some poor girl stirring and muttering questions about where her retainer went. “Looks like it tanked pretty hard,” the fed remarks.

The green guy spins around in his chair and nearly topples out “Pssh, don’t hate ‘cause you ain’t.”

“Ain’t what? A loser sitting in a pile of trash in the dark?”

“No. A  _ cool guy _ sitting in a pile of trash in the dark. Am I right, Smith? Up top.” The green guy raises his hand, but the blue guy sitting next to him just stares. “Alright, taking it back real subtle.”

The fed huffs as his eyes land randomly on the abandoned, barely legible banner reading ‘NEW REPUBLIC FOR THE WIN :D.’ He himself has just come from cleaning up his own grifball-viewing party, which had quietly petered out after that last argument between Kimball and Captain Tucker. No one had said anything about it, but Kimball’s words had stung more deeply than they would ever admit. At the end of the day, no matter who won the prank war or the grifball tournament or whatever petty thing they fought over, they would still wake up the next day and be forced to work together. Everyone had known it wouldn’t be easy, but they had also been far too polite and nervous to  _ say _ anything about it. And maybe Kimball wouldn’t have, if she had known people were watching. The thought stirs something bitter in him.

After a moment, the fed shakes himself from his thoughts. “Wait, I thought the game ended an hour ago.”

The green guy stops sipping loudly from his straw to look at him. “Well, look who can tell time.”

His irritation reignites. “What the hell have you been doing all this time? Clean this mess up, you idiot!”

His outburst earns him a groan of protest and a tiny ball of trash lobbed at his head. He is pretty sure it came from the guy sleeping amongst the Doritos bags. Meanwhile, the green guy holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, whoa, whoa, hey, keep your pants on. This game footage isn’t gonna gif itself, and since  _ I _ am getting shipped off on my special mission with Captain Tucker tomorrow, I have no choice but to do it now! It’s a time-sensitive operation, fed. You wouldn’t understand.”

The fed bristles. “Okay, listen here, cockbite--!”

Suddenly, the blue guy shushes them. “Excuse me. I’m trying to watch.”

Good manners compel the fed to lower his voice, at least a little. “Well. At least  _ one _ of you is doing his job,” he says shortly.

The green guy snorts. “Who, Smith? Nah, he’s just following that live broadcast from Captain Caboose’s helmet.”

Lo and behold, upon closer examination, the blue guy--Smith--is hunched over a live feed labeled ‘CABOOSE’ in the bottom lefthand corner. “There just  _ has  _ to be a reason why Captain Caboose is still filming,” Smith says firmly.

“Yeah, he’s been saying over and over again that he can’t turn off the camera.”

“But why? What does he need to show us before he turns it off?”

On the screen hosting the live feed, Caboose wanders through the halls aimlessly.  _ “Maybe I should try a voice command. Helmet. Helmet, turn off! Helmet. Helmet, are you listening to me? Church? Tucker? Anybody?”  _ A pause. _ “Ooh, wait! Maybe this is it!”  _ His helmet starts blasting music.  _ “Nope. Not that one.” _

Smith sighs. “What I wouldn’t give to see inside his brain for just a moment…”

“Yeah, so, as you can see, we’re both pretty busy,” says the green guy as he pastes a ‘forever alone’ face onto a gif of Captain Grif getting hit in the head. “But since you’ve got so much free time to ask us stupid questions, maybe you should go ahead and clean this place up, ‘cause man, it’s a fuckin’ pig stye.”

The federal soldier takes a deep breath. “Okay. I am going to count to three.”

“M’kay.”

“By the time I have reached that number…”

“Right.”

“You two imbeciles better be on the floor picking up your garbage and leaving. Immediately.”

“Sure thing, pal.”

“I am not your ‘pal.’ My name is Lieutenant Marcus Knott, and I will  _ not  _ sit here in your filth for the next three hours of my life! I won’t!”

“Yeah, and my name’s Private Charles Palomo, and I’m really busy, so go away.”

Knott purses his lips and opens his mouth to scream some more--he at least deserves that much--but Palomo isn’t even looking at him anymore. “Hey, shut up for a second, Mark Nutt. This broadcast’s getting good.”

“Are you even listening to me?! My name is…!” But the volume and heat of the argument coming from Smith’s monitor gives him pause.

_ “I’m talking about how you told me everything would be fine with us after…” _ A reluctant pause.  _ “... _ that  _ shit happened, but you keep pushing me away!” _

“Oh hey! That’s Captain Tucker!”

Against his better judgment, Knott makes some room for himself between the two rebels and peers at the screen. The music blasting from Caboose’s helmet has switched off, but the shouting still sounds distant, reaching them as an echo.

“Who on Earth could he be arguing with at this hour?” Knott asks, more to himself than anything.

“You mean who on Chorus,” Palomo answers anyway. “I mean, if he was arguing with someone on Earth right now, that’d be pretty crazy.”

“Oh, shut up.”

_ “Of course you can trust me! We  _ are  _ friends!”  _ comes Agent Washington’s voice eventually, increasingly loud as the camera comes slowly down the hall. There’s a note of desperation that Knott has never heard from him before. He never thought Agent Washington  _ could _ sound so unnervingly vulnerable.

The volume reaches its peak once Caboose has arrived at an open door, at which point he hesitates, pacing back and forth as the argument grows more and more intense.

_ “Okay, okay, what am I going to say? Umm,” _ Caboose whispers. Whether he’s talking to himself or to the helmet is unclear.  _ “Heeey sooo… I was just wondering, after you guys are done yelling about your feelings and being mad at each other and being mad about your feelings, could you maybe take a look at my helmet? Because…” _

All of a sudden, there’s silence. For a while, Caboose remains frozen where he is. The three soldiers at the monitors remain frozen as well.

_ “Oh. Maybe now they can help me.” _

As Caboose rehearses what he’s going to say once more, Smith sniffles audibly. “Of course. How could I have been so blind?”

Knott looks between the two rebels. “Uhh… What’s happening? Is the blue guy crying?”

“Don’t you see? He’s talking about  _ us _ .” Smith rises from his seat. “This argument that he overheard, it’s symbolic of the nature of our politics. Captain Tucker is right; we  _ have _ been pushing each other away. And Agent Washington is right as well; we  _ should _ trust each other. We  _ are _ friends. And the sooner we stop our in-fighting, the sooner we can help make a real difference.”

Knott and Palomo exchange dubious looks. Eventually, the latter offers a shrug. “I mean, that kinda made sense.”

“What? No, it didn’t! How could he possibly know what they were going to argue about? How did he even know where they were?!”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I’m not the genius.”

“Neither is he! Just look at him!” Lieutenant Knott exclaims, gesturing to the monitor where Captain Tucker is lifting his arms so Agent Washington can get his shirt off. “He’s an idiot just like the rest of you! I know he’s supposed to be a hero, but so far all he’s accomplished is making himself look...like…” Knott stops. He does a double-take.

The figure who had been napping in the trash rises with a sleepy groan. “Wh’s yellin’? Wh’ time is’t?” he mutters. He stumbles over to the monitors and stares for a good ten seconds before his brain registers what’s happening and his jaw drops.

“What? What happened?” The girl from earlier pushes her way to the front and gasps. “Palomo. Tell me you’re recording this.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s recording. Why?”

“Good. I mean, what? Nothing. No reason. Just bicurious, is all.”

“Haha, yeah… Wait, what?”

“I said I was curious.”

Lieutenant Knott shoves himself off the security panel and stomps over to the door, kicking up discarded cans and bags as he goes. He grinds one into the floor for good measure and receives a splatter of orange soda on his heel for his trouble.

Behind him, Palomo pipes up, “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t you say you’re supposed to be here for the next three hours?”

Knott kicks the offending can backwards into Palomo’s direction. “You two can cover my shift. I don’t give a crap.”

“Typical feds, skipping out on work. Would it kill you to throw out some trash on your way out?”

He leaves. The door slides shut behind him, crushing a bag of popcorn.

***

The halls are eerily deserted as they walk alongside each other, the silence heavy with the weight of the evening’s events. There’s a bit of everything between them: the adrenaline of the grifball game still winding down, the anger and bitterness of their argument still burning, the heat of an attraction finally, finally indulged, the immediate regret.

They arrive at Wash’s room sooner than expected, and it isn’t nearly enough time to come up with something to say. Because they  _ have _ to say something about it; they can hardly just leave it here and let it eat away at them until morning. Both of them seem to understand this, but for a long time all they can do is stare at each other like idiots.

“So,” is Wash’s brilliant contribution.

“So,” Tucker parrots back.

The staring like idiots thing continues.

Tucker ends up being the one to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind; really, the  _ only _ thing that comes to mind. “What the fuck was  _ that _ about?”

Washington has the gall to look startled and confused for a brief second. Tucker almost makes a jab at him--’Holy shit, you forgot about that really fast. Don’t tell me it was  _ that _ bad’--but ultimately decides against it. He  _ needs  _ to hear this answer.

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, and looks it. Tucker rolls his eyes. It was the answer he expected, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was an impulse decision--”

“I get it, dude.”

“You really don’t.”

“Angry sex is pretty simple, Wash. You get angry and you fuck. Not exactly rocket science.”

Wash’s frown deepens. “I didn’t kiss you because I was mad at you. I did it because…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. Any more and it’ll probably start falling out. “I don’t know. It felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Wow. Guess it’s about time somebody sat down and gave you The Talk. You see, sometimes people get these special feelings called ‘sexual urges’--”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah, I can definitely see how sticking your tongue down my throat could benefit Chorus in the long-run.”

“Cut the crap for five seconds and just  _ listen  _ to me.”

“Fine, go ahead.”

Washington actually looks thrown off by the compliance. It takes a moment for him to come up with what to say, lips twitching thoughtfully. Tucker tries to remember why the hell he ever thought it was a good idea to make out with this asshole. Then he remembers how Wash felt beneath his hands, all that bare skin, the way he moved against him, pinning him to the wall, smirking against his lips… And then he very quickly shuts down that train of thought. Fuck that, he thinks. Stupid gay thoughts. Bisexual thoughts. Pansexual thoughts? Abort.  _ Abort. _

“I do care about you, Tucker.” It is not at all what Tucker was expecting, this quiet, almost shy confession coupled with a painfully earnest look. “Probably more than I should. That’s...essentially what I was trying to get at when I kissed you.” A pause. “The rest was, just, uh, me getting carried away, I guess.”

Tucker snorts. He doesn’t know why he feels so winded, but a snort is the only sound he is capable of for a while. “Uh,” is the next one. Trying to come up with more is pretty difficult with Wash looking at him like that; the sincerity is so intense it burns. “Cool.” Nailed it.

Finally, Wash averts his eyes. Tucker releases a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “I just want you to understand that me not standing up to Kimball doesn’t mean that I don’t support you. It’s more complicated than that.”

Something clicks; slowly, but it does. The whole argument comes rushing back to him in a second. “Wait a minute. You think making out with me makes up for letting me hang out to dry in front of Kimball? In front of the whole goddamn army, now that you mention it, since fuckin’ blue boy got the whole thing on camera.”

Washington’s eyes come back to him and narrow a little. “I just said it’s more complicated than that.”

“I don’t see how complicated it could be. Hate to break it to you, Wash, but you’re not the first guy to figure out how the ‘shut up’ kiss works.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Really? ‘Cause it sounds to me like you’d rather fuck me in a stinky old gym than own up to being a dick.”

“I’d prefer sex with you over a lot of things, but that’s not the point,” Wash says dryly. Then he freezes. Tucker would laugh at the blush that follows, but he’s pretty mortified, himself. “That...came out wrong. Anyway, sex and emotional support aren’t mutually exclusive.”

There is something profoundly wrong about that sentence. It sounds like something that belongs in a lovers’ quarrel; not the kind Grif would make an offhand comment about, but a legitimate, actual fight with Real Feelings and Real Problems and Very Serious Commitments. 

“Jesus Christ, when the fuck did this become couples’ counseling?” Tucker blurts out. Wash frowns like he is similarly disturbed. “You know what? This is stupid. I’m tired, the whole base is gonna be on our backs tomorrow, and we’ve got a mission with literally one of the worst people on the entire planet. I’m going to bed.”

He waits for Wash’s permission to leave without really knowing why. “Alright,” comes the eventual answer. Wash hesitates. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep it civil tomorrow. For the sake of the mission.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it.” Tucker tries to sound dismissive but mostly just sounds too exhausted to care.

Nevertheless, Wash nods. “Goodnight, Tucker.”

Despite his earlier resolve, he finds it harder to leave Wash’s doorway than expected. That feeling from before, the one that compelled them to say something before parting ways, it’s still very much there, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“Yeah. G’night.”

If he lingers a bit too long before dragging himself down the hall, neither of them say anything about it.

***

“You have your orders,” Kimball says, casting an unimpressed glance over her supposed elite team. Wash and Tucker manage a nod, while Palomo looks like he is inching closer to death and Wash’s fed remains unblinking and unbreathing. Tucker is half convinced that Wash just dragged a mannequin into this meeting and hoped no one would notice. “Dismissed.” She narrows her eyes at Tucker. “Tucker, we’ll discuss your behavior once you’ve returned from the mission.”

Tucker can feel Wash staring a hole into the side of his head; expecting a toxic response, probably. He almost lets one slip, just to see Wash blow a gasket, but ultimately doesn’t.

The room silently filters out, though Wash’s statue of a recruit remains right where he was when Tucker entered the room. He doesn’t move until Doyle tries to worm past him, at which point he says “sir, a moment” so suddenly and loudly that Doyle nearly hops out of his own armor. It’s enough to catch Tucker’s attention, but Wash keeps herding Palomo out like nothing happened. 

Meanwhile, Doyle clears his throat. “Yes, of course. What--?”

“Alone.” The fed shoots a pointed look at Tucker and Wash’s retreating backs, which is rather unfair considering Kimball is there, too.

“Right. Well. After you, lieutenant,” Doyle says after a moment.

The fed keeps glaring at Tucker until the door closes behind him, at which point Tucker looks at Wash and quite reasonably asks what the fuck his deal was. “Just ignore him,” is all Wash has to say, though he sounds as unruffled as Tucker is about it.

“The last time I had to deal with a fed who hated my guts, I had to watch one of my friends die in front of me,” Tucker points out, and doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty at Wash’s sympathetic wince. The latter quickly recovers, however.

“Don’t worry. He won’t be bothering you again.”

“You say that like you’re gonna kill him in his sleep.”

Wash smiles wryly. “Maybe something a bit more subtle than that,” he says, and, because he’s Agent Washington, walks off without another word.

Tucker huffs. “Weird. Well, guess I better get ready... Who am I talking to?” He looks around. Palomo is passed out at his feet. “Right. Hey, idiot.” He nudges Palomo with his foot. “Grab some weapons from the armory and meet me by the south entrance.” Palomo gives him a thumbs up, still half asleep on the floor. “ _ Now _ .”

“Five more minutes, Mom…”

“Jesus Christ.”

By the time Tucker has collected Palomo off the floor and sent him on his way, Kimball has left the war room, but Doyle and Wash’s obstinate fed have yet to emerge. Tucker briefly considers leaving them be, but he hadn’t been lying when he said he was afraid of feds screwing up the mission just to spite him again. After just a short moment’s hesitance, he slips back into the room and hides around the corner, watching their conversation from a distance. 

“It isn’t right,” the fed says stubbornly. “I can name at least six different people who are dying of boredom during his training exercises. We need more than just basic training, sir. We  _ deserve _ more than that.”

“Forgive me, but I simply cannot understand why you aren’t satisfied with being at the top of your squad, let alone why you’d blame Captain Tucker for your unhappiness.”

“Yeah, what he said!” Tucker pauses. The two of them stare. “Whoops.”

The fed’s expression hardens. “You.”

Doyle shoots him a warning look. “Now, don’t you drag him into this--”

“No, you know what? He needs to hear this.”

“You mean you bitching and moaning about how awesome I am? Go ahead. Lay it on me.”

The fed shoves past Doyle, who looks at once livid and anxious of what is to come. “Look, I get it. Agent Washington cares more about you than he could ever care about any of us.” Tucker’s mouth falls open in protest, but the fed continues. “That’s why he wants you to be able to defend yourself. To survive this war, maybe even outlive himself. But how the fuck is that fair to the people who have fought this war for years? Why can’t we have a chance to improve ourselves, make ourselves stronger?”

“Okay, first of all, lessons with Wash? Not that great. Pretty sure the last lesson we had was just me throwing myself at the floor like a dumbass ten times in a row. Second: If his lessons mean so much to you, why don’t you just  _ ask _ for them instead of crying about it like a fucking lunatic?”

“You think we haven’t? He’s said no to every single one of us. Even our best.”

“Oh yeah? How good is your best?”

“Twenty years of service and a Silver Star.”

“Jesus, really?” The fed’s lips thin, but he says nothing. Tucker backtracks. “Well, maybe your best was too good for him. He ever get special training from a shady organization that made tiny hologram people?”

“You don’t get it. You’re the only one here he actually believes in. The only one he’s ever given a real chance.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tucker says automatically.

“No, what’s bullshit is that we finally get a badass on our side and yet he refuses to take us seriously.”

“That is quite enough!” Doyle sticks himself between them. “Is that how you speak to someone who saved our lives? Hm? Someone without whom we would still be fighting a pointless war?”

For a moment, Tucker half expects the fed to scream back at him, but his next words are careful and calm. “Of course I’m grateful. I just…” The fed lowers his eyes again. “I want us to be the best. All of us. And if these guys are holding out on us--”

“I assure you they’re not,” Doyle says primly. “However, if you still wish to be taken off the mission, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

“You’re ditching the mission? Fucking cold, dude.”

The fed gives Tucker an unreadable look. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way,” he says. There’s a layer of honesty in there that Tucker has no idea what to do with.

Doyle clears his throat. “Yes, well. I suppose that’s that. Just notify Agent Washington that you will be leaving the mission so he can set about finding a replacement.”

“Consider it done,” the fed replies ambiguously.

Both federal soldiers clear the area shortly afterwards, Doyle with a companionable nod and a kindhearted apology for the unpleasantness. It takes a while for Tucker to pick his feet up and get to where he’s going, weighed down by the fed’s seemingly irrational concerns piled on top of all the events from last night. He decidedly doesn’t like the way the fed described their relationship, as if Tucker is some kind of weakness. He has never considered caring about Wash to be a weakness, and he doesn’t see why it would be any different with the roles reversed.

“Agent Washington cares more about you than he could ever care about any of us,” he had said. “You’re the only one here he actually believes in. The only one he’s ever given a real chance.”

A truly terrible part of Tucker kind of loves that, actually.

***

Instead of putting Tucker through the seven layers of bureaucratic hell, today the attendants at the motor pool decide to put him on a waiting list. This involves a lot less running around and a lot more  _ sitting _ around watching people watch him and whisper to each other as they pass.

It should be sexy when he sees the ladies very openly undressing him with their eyes, but the eye-undressing is always followed up by more whispering, and then giggling, and then sometimes even pointing, and in all likeliness they’re probably talking less about how hot he is and more about how gay he is for Wash. A large part of him wants to stand up on some makeshift platform and describe in great detail how much he still very much likes boobs and pussy and all that good stuff, but an even larger part knows there is no point. Even if he himself still can’t quite believe that the guy panting and groaning against Wash in that video really  _ was _ him, that guy is all they can see now. It makes him feel a lot more naked in his own armor, ridiculous as that is.

In short, sitting around getting gawked at isn’t fun. What’s even less fun are the people who actually stop to talk to him.

“Your privates stopped by the armory this morning,” says Simmons.

Tucker takes a moment to replay the sentence in his head. “I only have one private, dude.”

A pause. “I know that. I meant… You know what I meant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _ Anyway…  _ He was trying to sign out some weapons, but I don’t think he nude what he was doing.”

“Dude. Seriously?”

“Knew! He didn’t nude.  _ Knew _ . He didn’t knew. I mean know. I never said nude. You’re the one gaying nude.”

Tucker just stares.

“I swear this isn’t on purpose.”

“Oh, Captain Tucker!” greets Dr. Grey not long after Simmons has scampered away. She’s halfway across the room in the middle of tending to some fed who made the mistake of sitting in a car driven by Jensen. “We should really schedule an appointment sometime!” she screeches over the dozens of soldiers coming in and out of the motor pool between them.

“What for?” Tucker asks, cupping his hands around his mouth for better effect. She does the same, her palms wet with blood, but an engine revs over her voice.

“Whaaat?!” says Tucker. She repeats herself, putting much more visible effort into it, but to no avail. Jensen’s face changes, which should be a warning sign, but Tucker just shouts, “Speak louder! I can’t hear you!”

The engine stops. “I  _ SAID,  _ TO DISCUSS! SAFE! ANAL! SEX!”

Everyone looks at him. Even the guy bleeding out under her hands stops crying long enough to stare.

“DO YOU NEED ME TO REPEAT--?”

“NO!”

“NO TO THE ANAL SEX THING OR NO YOU DON’T NEED ME TO REPEAT IT?”

“I DON’T NEED YOU TO REPEAT IT!”

“OKAY!” A pause. “SO. YEAH. APPOINTMENT.”

“I’LL THINK ABOUT IT!”

To his absolute shock, Grif doesn’t immediately burst into laughter or dirty jokes the minute he sees him. In fact, all he has to offer is a simple ‘sup’ and some decent company while Tucker waits around. Hanging with Grif when he isn’t being a dick is always a relaxing experience--the guy pretty much exudes ‘chill’ twenty-four seven--so the catch hits Tucker a lot harder than it should.

“Hey, do you have any idea why Simmons has been acting all weird this morning?” says Grif around a mouthful of chips.

Tucker hums. “He was acting pretty weird when I saw him, but literally everybody and their fucking mom has been acting weird around me all day, so, you know. What’s new?”

Grif eyes him up and down. “Why are people being weird around you?”

A moment. “You seriously don’t know.”

Grif snorts. “What? Did your sex tape with Wash finally get leaked?”

Silence. The slow realization on Grif’s face would be absolutely hilarious in any other given situation.

“No fucking way.”

“It wasn’t a sex tape.”

“No  _ fucking way _ .”

“We just made out a little!”

“On  _ camera _ ?” Tucker doesn’t respond. “ _ No fucking way _ !”

Finally, Tucker rips the vehicle form off the desk and picks up his helmet. “Okay, you know what? Fuck this, I’m taking this to Doyle.”

“I  _ knew _ it!” Grif says to his retreating back. The door shuts behind him right as Grif hollers, “ _ I knew you were sucking his dick, I fucking called it _ !”

It’s no surprise when Tucker storms into the war room and is abruptly hit with a wave of tension; hell, the room may as well be renamed ‘Doyle and Kimball’s Angry Place’ for all the times they argue in it. What he doesn’t quite expect is the desperate edge in Kimball’s voice when she speaks.

“Goddammit,” she grits out, although the heat isn’t quite there. Her eyes aren’t on anything in particular; she looks more lost than irritated. “I am so  _ sick _ of being interrupted. What is it, Tucker?”

Tucker casts an uncertain look about the room. Doyle appears similarly off, unable to meet Tucker’s eyes. “Sign this,” he says cautiously, sliding the paper across the table. Doyle peels the document off and skims it briefly before pulling a pen off his belt and scribbling his signature. Kimball continues to not look at anyone or anything.

“Right. Well.” Doyle clears his throat and pockets his pen. “There you are. Vanessa, perhaps we should continue this another time. I’ve duties to attend to, and--”

“Fine.” The word comes out rather wooden. Doyle regards her for a moment, nods, and then takes his leave without another word. The room remains silent for a full five seconds after the doors swish shut behind him.

Tucker whistles. “So.”

After a painfully long moment, Kimball lifts her head to look him in the eye. “So,” she says back.

When the eye contact gets too awkward, Tucker distracts himself by picking up the paper and examining the fine print. None of it makes any sense--too many three-syllable words and not enough pictures--but he can read the general ‘fuck you’ somewhere between the lines.

“No offense,” he says, folding the document in two, “but the Federal Army’s a bunch of dickwads.”

Kimball picks her head up. “Dickwads,” she repeats.

“Yeah.” Tucker starts wagging the paper around for effect. “First they make me run around all day just to get a couple of Warthogs out, then they make me sit around for an hour just to get  _ one _ Warthog out. Not to mention that stupid cone prank.”

At that, Kimball lets out a small snort. “At least that one wasn’t as boring as making you file paperwork.”

Tucker points the paper at her. “Exactly! What kind of prank uses paperwork? Literally no one involved gets any fun out of that.”

Her lips twitch ever so slightly, though there’s still something subdued about the look in her eyes. “And here I thought you were trying to be more diplomatic,” she says dryly.

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to be a fucking diplomat when everybody keeps treating me like an asshole for no reason. I risked my life for this stupid colony, but all anybody cares about is the bad shit they hear about me. How the hell am I supposed to make peace when everybody’s too busy talking shit about me to listen?”

Kimball raises an eyebrow. “I can’t even imagine.”

Suddenly, her gaze becomes a tad too meaningful for comfort. Tucker takes a nice long look at the floor.

“This is how it’s always been, Tucker,” she continues. “Don’t take it personally.”

Tucker chews on that for a bit. It’s easier said than done, considering all those scathing remarks that fed made earlier. “Well...you know them better than I do, I guess,” he says after a moment. He tentatively meets her eyes again. “I gotta admit, I am a pretty shitty diplomat.”

Kimball smirks a bit. “I’ll admit, your plan was...well-intentioned. But I don’t know if it would have worked in our current state.”

Before Tucker can ask what she means by that, a bit of radio static goes off in his ear. “Tucker, it’s past noon,” comes Washington over the radio. “How long are you going to take with that vehicle request?”

“Guess I better get going,” Tucker says to Kimball, even as Wash continues to berate him.

Kimball gives him a little wave. “Be safe. We’re gonna need you back in one piece so you can serve out your punishment.”

“Shit, that’s still a thing?” She answers with a lifted eyebrow. “Alright. That’s fair. Seeya.”

It’s equal parts confusing and relieving to see Kimball smile and know deep down that yeah, that’s still attractive. He had known that he was still into women, but there’s a difference between knowing and being reminded of it while his kind-of-crush is yammering in his ear. It almost makes him feel guilty, in a way, although that part  _ really _ makes no sense whatsoever.

“Dude, chill out. I got it,” he says somewhat distractedly as he heads out of the war room and into the hall. “Yeah, I know where the south entrance is. Yeah. Yeah.  _ Yeah _ . Wait, why do I hear showtunes in the background?”

***

The sight of Wash’s replacement fed makes Tucker want to turn the car around and drive straight off a cliff.

“What the fuck is this,” he says, gesturing at the bubbly pink blur of energy that is Franklin Delano Donut.

Donut, meanwhile, makes a pistol out of his fingers and fires at invisible enemies. “I am  _ so _ ready for this stealth mission, you guys. We’re gonna sneak up on them so hard they jump right out of their armor! Pew pew! Bam!” He points at Tucker. “Up against the wall, pilgrim!”

Washington makes a choking noise. Tucker makes another ‘what the fuck’ gesture. Palomo makes a valiant effort to stay upright as he snores.

“He was the only one available.”

“Out of the  _ entire _ Federal Army of Chorus?”

“I stopped trying after the third ‘I’m allergic to stealth.’”

“What about Sarge?”

“Busy deactivating all the grifballs.”

“Lopez?”

“He said no.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t speak Spanish.”

“It’s the same word in both languages, Tucker.”

“You sure they don’t spell it with a fancy ‘n’? Maybe normal ‘n’ means ‘hell yeah, let’s do this.’”

Out of nowhere, a blurry green image appears on Washington’s shoulder. “Actually, Agent Washington is correct. While there is indeed a use for the word ‘ño,’ its definition… Please stop.”

Tucker ignores him. He continues to pass a hand through the green blob and watch as it flickers around him until the blob switches to Wash’s other shoulder. “Is that...Church?”

“Sort of. Right now, Epsilon is in recovery after taking on the programming for all that grifball gear,” Washington explains.

Tucker frowns. He doesn’t like that word, ‘recovery.’ Like he put Church in a hospital or something. “If he’s in recovery, shouldn’t we be leaving him here to, you know, recover?”

Wash makes a noise of agreement and displeasure. “Carolina says it’s too dangerous to run the camouflage unit without him.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Oh don’t be such a baby,” comes Church’s voice as the hologram shifts into a more familiar light blue.

Tucker breathes an embarrassingly loud sigh of relief. “Christ, I wasn’t sure if you were still in there.”

“Well, I am. No thanks to you.” When Tucker doesn’t respond, Church adds, “Relax. I’m fine. I run, like, dozens of highly complex programs in C’s armor all the time. You think I can’t handle a few scorekeeping programs?”

The fuzziness of Church’s hologram compels Tucker to say that yes, he doesn’t think Church can handle that, and he’s insane for handling all of Carolina’s shit for so long, but he knows exactly how that conversation would go. Instead, he asks, “So why were you acting like that green dude just now?”

Church snorts. “Oh, that’s because I don’t wanna be around when you two inevitably snap and start getting at each other’s throats.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Wash says sternly, though he’s looking right at Tucker when he says it.

Tucker turns his eyes to the wheel and shrugs. “Don’t need to tell me, dude. I got it.”

Wash hops onto the Mongoose parked beside Tucker. “Great.”

“Yeah, fucking peachy.”

“Mhm.”

Church looks between them. “You know, it’s moments like these that make me glad I wasn’t around during the whole canyon thing.” At the twin glares he receives, he whistles. “O-kay. Tough room. Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

“Don’t let the holographic door hit you on the way out, dickhead,” Tucker says, and tries not to feel uncomfortable when the light blue hologram melts back into green.

They play a highly successful round of the quiet game for the first half of the trip, mostly because Palomo is all curled up under his Iron Man blanket fast asleep and Donut is a proud defender of his title as Quiet Game Champion. Wash rides alongside them in a Mongoose, which is just as well since Tucker doesn’t think they’d be doing much talking anyway. He’s still in the process of digesting everything Wash said, everything the fed said, analyzing every little reaction he has had that he still doesn’t understand. His mind gets stuck on the thought of Wash believing in him above all else and doesn’t move on from it for a humiliatingly long time.

The next half of the trip is thrown into chaos when Palomo wakes up and decides to take over as the trip’s DJ. Half an hour of Donut and Palomo screaming along to old pop hits later, Wash calls for a stop and Tucker obliges. Palomo and Donut make disappointed noises when the car turns off and their tunes cut off abruptly, but the silence is pure bliss to Tucker’s ears.

They follow Washington through a thick forest some ways away from the vehicles, until they reach the edge of a cliff overlooking the enemy base. The target outpost isn’t anything to write home about; it’s about the size of the Blood Gulch bases, if not smaller, dwarfed by the rock formations around it. The structure has clearly aged, too, the metal weathered down and rusted over. Donut makes a comment about how the distressed look is so two centuries ago, and surprisingly, Tucker can’t help but agree.

“This outpost is a dump,” he says. As if on cue, the pirate flag falls off the front of the base and falls on one of the men standing guard. “Seriously, how the fuck did we lose, like, twelve of our guys to this place?”

“Maybe they wore them down,” Palomo suggests.

Wash hums uncertainly. “No, Tucker’s right. Something doesn’t add up.” He rises from his crouching position and stands. “I’ll go run some reconnaissance. You guys stay here and--”

Tucker rises as well. “I’m coming with you.”

There’s enough of a pause for Tucker to know that Wash is seriously considering saying no, but it passes quickly. “Alright. You two sit tight and cover us if you see someone coming.”

“Roger that, Agent Washington! We have your rear end covered.”

“Yeah we do!” A pause. “Wait, what?”

It’s a rough time getting down the cliff, especially when the two of them are supposed to be sneaky about it. What’s more, the new angle is hardly worth it; there isn’t anything new or exciting to see, just the same two guys standing around talking about nothing. Tucker is jealous of how bored they seem to be.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Tucker whispers into the radio.

There’s a noise that sounds like Church reappearing on Wash’s shoulder. “Don’t dignify that with a response.”

Washington sighs. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. What about you guys?”

“Nope, still just a rusty old base,” Palomo chirps.

On an impulse, Tucker hops down from his own ledge and keeps on descending. “Tucker! What are you doing?” Wash hisses into the radio.

“Just a sec. I got an idea.”

Tucker falls from platform to platform gracelessly, each landing louder than the last. He slides the last bit of distance and lands on a ledge not far from the ground, though the foothold is crumblier than he would like. Once he has mastered his footing, he breaks off a loose rock and tests its weight. 

“Okay. Here goes nothing. You guys might wanna get down.” He tosses the rock in the direction of the base. 

“UNKNOWN OBJECT IDENTIFIED. TARGET LOCKED.”

A series of gunshots and lasers goes off. The rock is pulverized into a cloud of dust before it can even hit the ground.

“TARGET ELIMINATED.”

“Holy shit!”

“Jinkies!”

“Wait, do it again! I wasn’t looking!”

“ _ Tucker _ !”

Tucker quickly shuffles out of sight of the base, crouching low behind a conveniently sized rock nearby. The pirates, for their part, sound more annoyed than anything as they shout over the ringing in their ears. “Stupid turrets keep shooting at everything that moves,” one of them shouts at the other, who shouts back, ‘Whaaat? I can’t hear you!’

“So. There’s that,” Palomo says.

“Tucker, get back here  _ right now _ ,” Wash says sternly, and Tucker’s already scrambling back up the cliffside halfway through the sentence.

Once he’s up there, he takes a moment to catch his breath. He barely even has time to open his mouth before Wash is hounding him, however. “That was the dumbest thing I have ever…! What would you have done if they spotted you?”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“You could’ve died out there over some stupid--!”

“Fine, whatever, I’m a fucking dumbass,” Tucker cuts in, irritated. “You can yell at me later. Right now, we need to figure out a way past those turrets.”

Wash very audibly inhales like he’s about to exhale cartoonish smoke through his ears. “Fine,” he says in a curt ‘fuck you’ kind of way.

The two of them are silent on their way back up to the top, until Palomo meekly offers, “I thought it sounded pretty cool,” to which both of them intone, “Shut up, Palomo.”

***

The plan is this: Wash will disguise himself as a space pirate stopping by to collect some rations for his outpost. Tucker will use Palomo’s Iron Man blanket to hide himself on the Warthog, which Wash will bring into the base. While Wash has the pirates distracted, Tucker will sneak around and see if he can find a way to deactivate the turrets. Once that’s done, Donut can charge through the front guns ablazing and they can take over the base--or, at the very least, escape with a decent chunk of supplies. Palomo will guard their escape route because he sucks.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Palomo says easily. “I’m getting pretty good at guarding escape routes, though. See? Look.” He fishes around on his belt for something and holds it up. “I got a smoke bomb!”

Not even two words into the sentence, Palomo turns bright orange. His voice cracks familiarly on the word ‘smoke.’

The three of them gape. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” says Tucker.

“Oh, whoops.” Palomo returns the grifball to his belt. “That’s not it.”

“You  _ brought _ that with you on  _ purpose _ ?” says Wash.

Palomo shrugs. “It was a souvenir! I mean, they were just lying around at the armory when I dropped by to pick up our equipment, and I thought it’d be a real shame to let  _ all _ the grifballs go to waste, so I just--”

“So you decided to bring one on our highly dangerous military operation,” Wash finishes for him. Again, Palomo just shrugs.

“Why didn’t you bring something cooler? Like a gravity hammer?”

“Uhh, because those are a lot harder to sneak out of the armory?”

“Eh, good point. Still a piece of shit, Palomo.”

“Totally see where you’re coming from, captain.”

Washington clears his throat. “Just… Don’t let it get in the way. Please.”

Palomo nods good naturedly. “Okie doke.”

“I have a question,” Donut pipes up. “What’s my signal? Can it be a codeword? Ooh, can it be a  _ safeword _ ?”

“Uhh…” Tucker exchanges a look with Wash. “Lay it on me?”

“Sure, I’ll lay my ideas all over you!” Donut chimes, and Tucker cringes. Donut hums thoughtfully. “Can the codeword be ‘chrysanthemum’? I’ve always wanted to use it!”

Tucker sighs. “Fine, whatever. Can we get going already?”

Wash straightens. “Alright. You two stay alert. We may need backup if things get hairy in there.”

“And by ‘backup’ he means not Palomo,” Tucker adds.

“I  _ mean _ do whatever you can to help,” Washington says firmly, nudging Tucker.

“Hey, you want to get shot in the head by Private Fuckup over there as soon as we call for help? Be my fuckin’ guest.”

“Well then how about you try not to get caught, so we don’t have to ask for help?”

“Gee, thanks for the words of wisdom, Wash. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

Washington huffs and shoves his way past Tucker, who throws up middle fingers at his back. Meanwhile, Palomo and Donut look on quietly. “Still fighting, huh?” says Palomo.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Tucker.

“Aw, but I thought you two already kissed and made up!” says Donut.

Palomo snickers. “More like ‘kissed and made out’! Heigh-yo!”

Tucker pointedly rips the blanket from him and drapes it over his shoulder. “I am going to pee all over this.”

“Shutting up now.”

Staying still underneath a warm blanket while in full armor under the sun ends up being even harder than it looks. It takes some effort to lie still and behave like a good little mysterious lump of something, and even more effort to keep his breathing as still as possible. His hand sits tight over his energy sword, just in case he needs to stab a curious pirate in the face. Careful as he is, however, he nearly topples out when the vehicle finally comes to a halt and has to bite his tongue to keep in a yelp.

He can hear Washington hop out of the driver’s seat, then the crunch of wary footsteps coming their way. “This the Coagulation Outpost?” Wash grumbles in a voice entirely unlike his own. Tucker bites down on a snicker. He, Donut, Palomo, and even Delta had voted that Wash do an old man impression to disguise his voice instead of using Epsilon’s voice modulator, but he hadn’t actually expected him to  _ do _ it.

“Sure is,” one of the pirates replies.

“M’here to do a check on our supplies,” Wash explains with an exaggerated drawl.

“Yeah? Who sent you?”

“Locus,” Wash says boldly. “He’s got a feelin’ that somebody’s been digging into the medical supplies. You wouldn’t happen to know anythin’ about that, would you?”

“Can’t say I do. Feel free to see for yourself, though.”

“Will do.” He spits.

There is a pause. “Did you just...spit in your own helmet?”

“Uh…yeah. Got a problem with it?”

Tucker rolls his eyes. Washington has got to be the lamest cool guy he has ever met.

“Alright, come with me, uh… What’s your name again?”

“You can call me the quartermaster.”

“Hey, wait.” The new voice is significantly close, getting closer. Tucker works on not breathing. “What’s this?”

Wash, bless his soul, answers completely casually. “Just some scraps of armor I found lyin’ at the side of the road. Most of it’s junk, but I reckon I could use ‘em for somethin’.”

“No, I mean…” The pirate snorts and picks at the blanket. Tucker tries not to flinch. “Iron Man? Really?”

“Ignore him. He’s the kind of guy who thinks movie Hawkeye’s superior to comic book Hawkeye.”

The blanket falls back into place. “I’ve got two words for you: Jason Bourne.”

“And I got two words for you: shut the fuck up.”

“That’s not--”

“You fellas mind if I park this in the back?” Washington interrupts.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

Involuntarily, Tucker releases a small sigh of relief, only to immediately tense up again when he feels a hand on the blanket again. “Hey, wait a sec.”

The other pirate groans. “What now?”

“Can I take this blanket? Our captain really loves Iron Man.”

For a full two seconds, Wash doesn’t say anything. Tucker starts to panic. “No can do,” he says eventually. “M’afraid it’s not mine to give away.”

To Tucker’s horror, the pirate’s fist tightens on the blanket. “Aw, c’mon. I’ll pay you. How much you want for it?”

“How much you got?” Washington asks back, somewhat strained. Tucker can feel the blanket riding up, but can’t shift without drawing attention to himself.

“Mm… How’s twenty credit sound?”

“Cheap.”

“Fine, twenty-five.”

“Sounds to me like you can’t afford it,” Wash says quickly. Tucker feels him hop back into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jonés, leave the man alone.”

The pirate nearest Tucker gives a reluctant whine. “Oh, alright…” Finally, he releases the blanket.

The Warthog hums to life beneath him. “Careful not to double park back there,” says the pirate who isn’t Jonés.

Washington doesn’t respond audibly, just revs up the engine and drives onward. Once it has been long enough, Tucker releases a deep breath and lets out a nervous laugh. “Jesus, that was close.”

“You alright back there?” Wash asks in his normal-Wash voice.

“Dude--” Tucker’s no doubt hilarious remark about Wash’s sad attempt at an old southern accent gets cut off by a rather significant bump in the road, which jostles him just as significantly and sends him face-first into the ground. He rolls about three or four times before coming to a stop flat on his back. Some distance away, the Warthog whirs to a stop.

Tucker sits up and looks around. The pirates stare at him blankly.

“UNKNOWN OBJECT IDENTIFIED. TARGET LOCKED.”

He sighs. “Aw, fuckberries.”

Within the blink of an eye, the scene goes from mildly confused to an all-out frenzy of bullets and shouting. Tucker runs away from the turret’s line of fire and straight into the Warthog--or rather, the Warthog runs straight into him as it backs up. Despite Washington swerving back and forth to avoid the turret’s wrath, Tucker manages to climb on and get ahold of the machine gun without toppling out again. He turns his fire on the turret and blocks a few hits, but aiming is more difficult than usual with the bumpy terrain and the chaos of bullets and the jerky movements of the car.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, a bullet catches on one of the tires and the car spirals out of control, flinging both Tucker and Wash overboard. Tucker’s shout of surprise is muffled by the ground, but he doesn’t get much time to recover as he feels someone approaching him. He rolls onto his back and swings his sword out to block the attack with enough force to throw the enemy off his guard. He takes the opportunity to pull himself to his feet just in time to dodge the rain of fire coming down on him from the turret. It becomes exponentially more difficult once the pirate goes for another attack, forcing him to dodge, parry, and swing his sword around all while moving fast enough to flee from the bullets. What little training he had gotten from the Sangheilis is strengthened twofold by the fundamentals of close-quartered combat that Wash had drilled into his brain, but fighting on instinct isn’t going to be enough if he can’t get that turret out of the picture.

Eventually, he finds an opening after the enemy lunges forward, putting way too much of his weight into it and allowing Tucker to get a hold of his wrist and maneuver him into the prime position for a human shield. The pirate squirms against him as his body takes the bullets and doesn’t stop until Tucker has finally gunned the turret down. It explodes just as the pirate’s body hits the ground and stays there.

Once Tucker has plucked some useful items off the pirate’s belt, he takes a moment to catch his breath before looking around for the next guy. The other pirate  _ should _ be thoroughly occupied by Wash right now, but Wash is just standing there looking paranoid and the guy he should be fighting is nowhere to be seen and wait, is that a presence he feels behind him?

“Where’d he--?” Tucker realizes his own mistake as soon as ‘where’d’ leaves his mouth, then chokes on the ‘he’ as an arm come up around his throat. It isn’t tight enough to actually strangle him, but enough to hold him in place as a gun is pressed to the side of his head. He sighs. “Son of a bitch.”

“ _ Tucker _ !” Wash moves toward him and falls to one knee with an anguished cry. He’s bleeding, Tucker realizes belatedly. He’s bleeding and his chest is heaving too fast and his good knee is wobbling dangerously.

“Hey, assholes,” the pirate says to his radio, “I’ve got two intruders down here that I need help taking care of. Send somebody down ASAP.” He clicks the radio off. “Hands where I can see them,” is the next instruction, which Wash obeys carefully. “Great. Now, hand over your weapons.” Wash tosses them at his feet, not once looking away. Tucker really, desperately wants Wash to stop acting like he’s this guy’s bitch, but it’s not like he’s in any position to talk. “That all?”

“Yes.”

The pirate cocks his gun and presses it tight against Tucker’s head. “You sure?”

Wash’s response comes out a growl. “ _ Yes _ . Now let him go.”

“Not so fast.” The pirate tightens his arm around Tucker’s neck, forcing a choked noise out of him. “I have some questions for you.”

“Oh, come on,” is what Tucker tries to say, but it comes out as a series of strained squeaks, which only serves to spur Washington’s rage on.

“Seeing my partner get choked out doesn’t really put me in the mood to answer questions,” Wash grits out.

The pirate forces Tucker to his knees, gun still pressed to his head. Tucker gasps for air, coughing violently. “Better?”

“All things considered, sure.”

Tucker blinks his eyes rapidly and forces himself to focus past where Wash is barely containing his rage, at the cliffs just past his shoulder. “Hey, I’ve got a question,” he blurts out.

The pirate pauses and looks at him. He tilts Tucker’s head with his gun. “What was that?”

Tucker sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “I said I’ve got a question for you,” he repeats, though it is more strained this time.

“I’m not taking questions from prisoners, asshole, I--”

“I just wanted to know how to spell chrysanthemum, dude. Chill the fuck out.”

There is a long pause. Tucker considers the possibility that his last words might actually be a question about Donut’s sex flower.

“Chrysanthemum,” he repeats, a bit deliriously. “You know, the flower.”

The pirate sputters. “I know what a fucking chrysanthemum is. They’re the flower for Mother’s Day.”

“No, you’re thinking about carnations,” Wash interjects. “He said chrysanthemum. They’re shaped very differently.” He repeats it slowly. “Chry-san-the-mum.”

“Why the fuck are you asking me about flowers?!”

“Just answer the question, dude. Can you spell it or can’t you?”

“Wh--I--why would I ever need that knowledge, ever, in my entire life?!”

“I dunno! I just thought it’d be nice to finally figure out how the fuck that word’s supposed to be spelled before I get my brains blown out. It’s been haunting me my whole life.” Tucker squints at a bit of movement happening at the top of the cliff. It is noticeably not pink colored. Very, very tan and aqua, in fact. “Oh, fuck me. I said chrysanthemum, not idiot-fuck-dumb!”

Suddenly, the ground leaps up and smashes itself into Tucker’s visor. Wash makes an angry noise somewhere above him, while the pirate digs his foot into his back. Tucker just barely manages to get his head turned at an awkward angle that makes his neck hurt like hell, but at least he can see what’s going on. “You’re going to start making sense right the fuck now!” the pirate demands.

“Calm down!” Wash says sternly. “I’ll talk, okay? Just take it easy.”

“Oh, fuck this.” The pirate raises his gun and points it at Wash. “I’ll just kill both of you.”

Tucker panics, scrambling beneath his foot. “Like hell you will!” A bullet gets packed into his shoulder. “ _ Fuck _ !”

Washington makes a thwarted noise that sounds like the beginnings of Tucker’s name, but stops short when the pirate pulls his gun on him again. “Now hold still,” the bastard mutters.

Tucker claws at the ground uselessly, trying to wiggle out, but the pain in his shoulder is too much and the foot on his back is too strong and it’s so  _ hard _ , but he can’t just lie there and  _ watch _ the way that Wash is trembling and unarmed. It occurs to him that Wash isn’t even trembling in fear; the jackass is trembling in  _ anger _ as if he’s not the one who’s staring down the barrel of a gun, as if he’s not the one bleeding on bended knee, and Tucker would get over there and smack some sense into him if he could  _ just fucking move _ \--

“Fuck, Wash!”

A gunshot rings through the air, followed by a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I should probably mention now, in case you hadn't noticed, this is not the last chapter.
> 
> I had originally intended for the last chapter to be an even split between Tucker and Wash's perspectives, but it just didn't work out and each part ended up being long enough to separate into their own individual chapters. That said, the next chapter has been fully written out and finished! So there will be a significantly shorter wait. I just have to get it beta'd and edited before publishing. Maybe next week?
> 
> There are a ton of fucking stupid references I slipped into this chapter because I thought, hey, last chance, but I won't mention all of them here. I will, however, apologize for them. So. So sorry. So, so dumb.
> 
> Seeya guys in the last chapter!


	8. Final Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the real lesson was friendship all along. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAND WE'RE BACK
> 
> I know, I know, I said this would update last week, but there were some unforeseen circumstances (read: I realized I had to scrap a giant chunk of the chapter and rewrote it over the weekend) plus some personal stuff came up, but I was very much determined to get this done and published before classes start. And since classes start tomorrow, well, here we are, ahaha.
> 
> I've probably said this in every A/N and most of my replies to your comments, but I really can't say enough how thankful I am for your comments and in general all the great encouragement and feedback I've been getting on this thing. I don't know if I mentioned this, but I have never actually finished a multi-chaptered fic, and it makes me extremely proud to have finally accomplished that. I'm furthermore just happy to contribute to the RVB fan community, and I'm grateful to have met and talked to you all.
> 
> A few little things: I've been kind of forgetful about warnings in past chapters, so please let me know if I need to add trigger warnings to any of them. I don't think anything in this chapter is very graphic, but there is a passing mention of vomiting in this one, so yeah.
> 
> Also, I actually have a few more things in mind for this universe, so depending on how busy I am you might see some epilogue-type one-shots from me in the future. They'll be way shorter and way cheesier than this though lol
> 
> Once again: Thank you guys so much for sticking around for so long. Hope you enjoy.

Lieutenant Marcus Knott had a sharp eye, was light on his feet, and always had the utmost respect for protocol and rank. This being the case, Knott had been an easy choice for Agent Washington’s mission. It wasn’t until Wash actually gave Knott the mission that he realized how this could backfire. Badly.

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Lieutenant Marcus Knott said, because protocol was protocol, but it certainly wasn’t a request.

“Granted,” Washington said anyway. He crossed his arms; Caboose often told him it made him look like he was angry, and it was as good a casual show of power as any.

In truth, Washington had been preparing for a confrontation all morning. What with the broadcast being out there for all to see, it was only a matter of time before someone questioned his integrity, and he knew all the points to hit by heart. Yes, he was aware that what happened between him and Captain Tucker was inappropriate. No, it would not happen again. No, it would not affect the mission. Yes, he was fully capable of containing his desires. Rest assured, it _would not happen again_.

Knott, however, did not follow up with accusations or interrogations. Instead, he said, “I don’t understand what you see in him.”

This threw pretty much everything out the window. “You’re concerned about my taste in men,” Wash said blankly.

“I’m concerned about how you evaluate the soldiers you’re supposed to be training,” Knott corrected. “I get that he’s your…lover, or something. But you can’t just train people based on how much you like them.”

Wash felt the conversation quickly slipping from him. “Are you...are you _lecturing_ me right now?” His eyebrows dipped into a ‘v’ toward the back end of that question, but Knott didn’t let up. His face got a bit redder, in fact.

“I just don’t understand what you see in him,” Knott repeated. “I don’t know if it’s because you’re in love with him or if it’s some side of him that I haven’t seen, but...I don’t _see_ how he deserves special training while the rest of us don’t. Even that big blue idiot with the talking gun is training with the most badass soldier we have!”

“That big blue idiot with the talking gun helped save your planet,” Washington said warningly. “And so did the greenish blue guy with the sword, if I remember correctly. Is preventing a civil war not enough of a qualification?”

“Well, sure, they were brave, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dumbasses.”

“So you think smarts and talent are all it takes to make a good soldier? Because let me tell you, the last time I was part of a team that valued skill above all else, those values tore us apart.”

“I’d rather be part of a team that values my skills than a team that doesn’t value me at all,” Knott spat, the words coming out in a rush of heat.

Washington huffed. “Doesn’t--doesn’t _value_ you? I _chose_ you for this mission!”

“Yeah, and I’m real fucking grateful, sir.”

Whatever expression Wash was sporting must have been rather new and shocking, because there was a flash of surprise and guilt before Knott’s eyes fell to Washington’s toes. “Look, I...I don’t want to do this mission, anymore. Give it to someone else.”

“Oh, really. You’d rather tough it out here with Carolina.”

“I’d rather get training from someone who might actually take me seriously, and not handle me with kiddy gloves just because I’m not a hot guy with a sword,” Knott replied, his voice shaking only once.

Wash clenched his teeth at that last part. “Take it up with Doyle,” he gritted out, and didn’t move an inch as Knott brushed past him. Didn’t bring up the fact that he hadn’t dismissed him, yet.

He did, however, say this: “You asked what I see in Captain Tucker.” Knott’s footsteps slowed to a halt behind him. “I see someone who used to care about nothing. Someone who only wanted to sit around and talk to his friend. Someone who had the opportunity to get that life back, and didn’t take it because he cared enough to fight instead.” Wash looked over his shoulder. “He gave all that up so he could fight for you.”

Knott didn’t respond for a while, verbally or otherwise. Then: “We’ve made our sacrifices, too. And we deserve more than what you’re giving us. We...we deserve more of your respect.”

Wash could only stare incredulously at Knott’s retreating back. “Respect?” he echoed to the empty hallway. “What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

***

Several more gunshots ring out after that first one, just in case. A little paranoia never hurts in this sort of situation, and anyway, that asshole deserves it. And so Wash shoots him again, and again, and again, and--

“Uh, dude? I think you got him,” Tucker shouts over the noise, covering his ears with his hands. “Seriously, give it a rest!”

“Fine.” Washington fires off one more shot to punctuate the word, then stows his pistol away and takes a look at the corpse. There are too many holes in it now to discern which one was from Palomo’s shot, but he remembers the moment vividly. The shot--the thud--the momentary confusion. It had taken Wash a second to realize that he wasn’t dead.

Up on the cliff, Palomo stands with shaky knees, sniper rifle still clutched in his hands. Wash waves. “I never thought I’d say this, but...nice work, Palomo,” he says into the radio.

Palomo makes some kind of gulping noise that is probably supposed to be words. “You know he barely got that guy in the shoulder, right?” says Tucker.

“He saved our lives,” says Wash with no room for disagreement. Palomo’s shot had, after all, distracted the pirate long enough for Wash to grab his gun and shoot. It was a hell of a lot more helpful than Wash had ever imagined he would be.

Wash locates the Warthog several yards away, cradled up next to the cliff, its wheels facing out and still spinning in place. It also happens to be very much on fire.

“Well. There goes our ride,” he says.

A radio signal that isn’t theirs crackles loudly from the pirate’s corpse. Tucker and Wash exchange a look. “Yo, Vav,” greets the corpse’s helmet. “Sorry, man, we were out for lunch. What was that you said about backup?”

Silence. After a few awkward ‘hellooos?’, Church makes his appearance on Wash’s shoulder. “I got this,” he says right before moving into the dead pirate’s helmet. In an eerily perfect imitation of the corpse’s voice, Epsilon replies, “Cancel that, sorry. We handled it.”

Tucker whistles. “Dang. Church is _way_ better at impressions than you.” Before Wash can even react to that, another burst of static cuts him off. “Uh...Church?”

“It’s not me,” Church responds, still in Vav’s voice.

“What isn’t you?” comes the confused question on the other end.

“It’s not him,” comes another, newer voice. “Two intruders… One of em’s got a disguise... Send...help.”

“Jonés? The fuck is going on?”

“Ignore him,” Church says too quickly. “You know how he is before he’s had his coffee.”

“True…” Something moves in Wash’s periphery. “Hey, wait a minute, we have a coffee machine? And here I’ve been surviving off kitchen grease for _weeks_!”

As Church continues to improvise some terrible lie, the ‘unconscious’ body lying yards away starts crawling away from them, only to get his hand crushed under Wash’s foot as he rasps out another ‘help.’ Washington kicks him in the head for good measure, which effectively shuts him up.

Wash is trying to discern if the poor guy is actually dead or alive when Tucker rushes over to join him. “Oh, holy shit! I thought he was dead!”

Washington glares at him. “Seriously? How could you possibly miss that?”

“Hey, I’m not about to stop and check for a pulse every time somebody gets shot in the fucking chest.”

Meanwhile, the pirate over the radio announces: “Alright, something’s up. I’m heading down there.”

“Hey, hang on, that’s not--!” The line clicks. Church reappears at their side. “I’m seeing three of them headed your way. You guys better act fast.”

Washington thinks, but there is not much to work with other than a dead pirate, a close-to-death pirate, and a flaming Warthog. They could scale the cliffs, but Wash’s knee is in poor condition and Tucker isn’t faring much better. There aren’t any obvious hiding spots, but maybe--

Tucker’s shouting cuts his thoughts short. “Donut! Grifball me!” After a confused moment’s hesitance, a grifball does indeed come sailing down toward them. Tucker catches it and hisses in pain, grabbing at his shoulder and letting the grifball spill onto the ground. “Shit.”

“I got it.” Wash scoops the grifball back up, though bending over ends up being harder than expected on his knee. He cringes. “Fuck. Okay. What am I doing with this, boss?”

“Put it in the… Hold up. What did you just call me?”

“Tucker!”

“No way, that’s not what you just said.”

“For the love of God, can we _please_ do this later?!”

“Ugh, fine.”

At Tucker’s request, Wash fastens a grifball in the unconscious pirate’s hand. In an instant, his armor goes from black to pure orange, at which point the purpose of the plan hits Wash fully. They’ll be looking for two intruders, and if they see two guys in colorful armor…

By the time the three pirates have arrived, Tucker has his hands in the air and Wash’s gun at his back.

“Sorry guys,” Wash says in a perfect imitation of Jonés’s voice. The real Jonés makes a weak noise at his feet. “I got it.”

***

“Carolina,” Wash said gently yet loud enough to be heard, which was hard to do when everyone in the background was screaming, “you can’t use your lesson plan with Caboose to train the rest of the army.”

“Why not?” she actually had the gall to ask when Caboose was spinning Bitters around and around by the ankles.

“They’ll _die_ ,” Wash replied urgently.

Carolina scoffed. “Maybe they’ll _almost_ die. Besides, aren’t they the ones who wanted something more challenging?”

“I’m really starting to regret telling you about that.” Wash hadn’t been able to help it; his meeting with Knott on top of his deteriorating relationship with Tucker had left him restless and angry. Ranting to Carolina as she set up for morning training had done a decent job of relaxing him, but it seemed that it had distracted him from some of the warning signs.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me and regret later?” Carolina teased.

Washington’s cheeks burned despite himself. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

They watched as the lieutenants made a desperate attempt to tackle Caboose to the ground all at once. “You two going to be okay on the mission?” she asked after a while.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it, Carolina.”

Carolina shrugged. “You need to get over yourselves, you know. Sort out your feelings so they don’t get in the way. And they _will_ get in the way if you don’t.”

He couldn’t argue with her there. “It’s just that… I don’t know how to make Tucker feel like I support him without making the feds feel like I’ve left them behind.”

“You can’t please everyone, Wash.”

“I know. I just wish I didn’t have to pick a side.”

Carolina gave him a sidelong look. “You do know we’re all on the same side, right?”

“ _I_ do. The feds could use a reminder or two.”

“Then remind them,” she said simply, and when Wash just stared, added: “Don’t just tell them. Show them your support. Prove that they can trust you.”

And then Carolina had to go help Jensen with her inhaler, leaving Washington to chew things over on his own. Even if he didn’t like the idea of being tested like this, clearly Tucker and the feds needed some solid evidence that he could support all of them without neglecting one or favoring the other. The only question was how to demonstrate it.

After a long moment’s contemplation--which was admittedly difficult given the environment--Washington excused himself from the training room, ignoring the desperate pleas that followed him out the door.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right this time.

***

Tucker’s body hits the wall like a ragdoll, limbs wobbly and useless as he flies across the room. He howls at the impact before trying to pick himself up, then earns a round of laughter when he inevitably collapses. His helmet falls off and scuttles to the floor, revealing bright purple bruises and a bloody lip.

One of the men knocks on the bars of the cell. “Jesus. Can’t believe this is the guy who gave Felix and Locus such a hard time. Poor bastards must be losing their touch.”

“Fuck you,” Tucker spits.

The rest of them simply ignore him. “We better report this to Command.”

“Hey, assholes, what about my friend?”

The man nearest his cell snorts. “What’s there to say? We shot him up, we put him in a cell. He probably won’t make it through the night.”

Tucker rises to his knees, then to his feet, albeit unsteadily. “You can’t just leave him like that!”

“Funny. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what we did.” The man nods to the rest of the crew. “Tell Felix we’ve got two prisoners he might be interested in... Well.” The man watches as Tucker’s legs give out underneath him again. “Maybe one and a dead body, by the time he gets here.”

“Make the call yourself, Jonés,” says one of the others.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ hate talking to that guy. He’s just. Always sarcastic. All the time,” another agrees.

“Fine by me,” says the man still closest to Tucker’s cell. The other three filter out of the room quietly, chattering amongst themselves about how unfair it is that they got stuck inside when something exciting finally happened.

Once the door slides shut behind the last of them, the man peers carefully into the cell. “You alright?” he asks.

Tucker groans as he gets back onto his knees. He’s shaking less than before, but still enough to tell that the show of pain wasn’t entirely an act. “I’d be better if you hadn’t thrown me against the wall like a wet paper towel. What the hell, Wash?”

“Had to make it realistic,” Washington says dismissively, though he can’t fight the twist of guilt he feels when Tucker throws him a dirty look. “Sorry. Can you walk?”

There’s a limp in the leg that got shot as he approaches the barrier between them. He exhales loudly upon arrival, slumping against the bars and muttering, “Holy shit this hurts.”

Wash is aware he should say something comforting, but he’s just as aware that he has the comforting skills of a cactus. “That was some quick thinking back there,” he tries instead. Tucker gives him an odd look, so Wash quickly shuts up and wordlessly catalogues all the injuries, from the bruises around his eyes to the unnatural slump in his shoulder.

All things considered, it had been a close one. But at least now Washington can keep his cover and the only other witnesses are either dead or locked up and close to death. There’s still a very real chance that the latter might wake up, however, and it won’t exactly be easy taking down an entire base all by himself. The mission is far from over, even if he already feels exhausted.

“I really fucked up, didn’t I?” Wash mutters absentmindedly.

Tucker snorts. “Oh, please. I’m the dumbass who fell out of the Warthog.”

“I should’ve accounted for that.”

“Wash, if there’s anything you should’ve learned from hanging out with us by now, it’s that you can’t account for dumbass.”

“But you can account for things that could blow your cover,” Wash says firmly. “For example: gravity.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Okay, how about the gravity part was your fault and the dumbass part was my fault? Happy?”

Washington swallows. He looks at Tucker and his bruises and scars; watches him bite back the pain and stare back expectantly. Some slightly delirious part of his brain remembers that just a few months ago, Tucker couldn’t even do warm up exercises without mentioning his irritated nipples. He laughs. Tucker looks like he isn’t sure if he should be concerned or offended.

“Sorry, I just… Wow. I really fucked up.”

“Uh, yeah. You said that.”

“No. I mean…” Wash pauses. Tucker’s face is slowly edging more towards concerned by the minute, and wow, that is not an expression he should be having when he’s the one locked up and beaten half to death. “This...really isn’t a conversation we should be having when we’re trapped inside an enemy base,” he says eventually.

Now Tucker is getting genuinely annoyed. “Oh, come on. Just say it.”

“Well...” Wash hesitates. There’s no point in hiding it, but that doesn’t make it easy to say. “I was just thinking that it was a mistake to offer you private lessons.”

The admission stuns Tucker into silence. Then confusion. Finally, with some thinly veiled hurt: “What?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Wash says gently.

“Is the right way any less of a bitch?” Tucker says, much less so.

“ _Look_ , I…” Wash takes a deep breath through his nose. If he acts confrontational, Tucker will take it as such. He can’t let them spiral like this, not again.

“It’s just that I realized…” he starts again. “Well, I realized that you never really needed my help in the first place.” Tucker narrows his eyes. “I mean it. You’re a completely capable soldier on your own. You know how to make tough decisions when you’re in a tight spot. You think quick on your feet and can hold your own in battle. Hell, I’d even say you’ve been carrying the mission this whole time.”

At that, Tucker’s eyebrows shoot straight up his forehead. His mouth remains unnervingly shut.

“The point is, I wanted to support you when you felt like you were stagnating, and I thought that private lessons were the way to do it. But instead of supporting you, I ended up treating you like a soldier under my tutelage, when I should’ve been treating you like a friend. What’s worse, I let the feds pressure me into being an even worse friend than I already was.” Washington’s gaze drifts towards the floor. “In other words, I--”

“Really fucked up,” Tucker finishes for him. “Yeah. I got it.” The tone is neither forgiving nor hostile.

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, and means it.

When he chances a look at Tucker, Tucker shrugs his good shoulder. “I mean, you’re definitely not the first fuckup the Blue Team has seen. Or the worst.”

Wash can’t help a small chuckle. “Technically, I’m on the Red Team now.”

“Dude, I don’t give a shit what Sarge says, there is no way I’m taking another day of Caboose crying about how much he misses you.”

“You say that like he’s the only one.”

Tucker’s eyebrows rise again for a full second before he snorts and grins a little. “Man, you really _are_ bad at the whole ‘friend’ thing,” he says, not quite jokingly. Before Wash can take anything back, he adds, “Not that I mind. I mean, aside from the part where you want to jump my bones--”

“I--I wouldn’t put it like--”

“Whatever, _aside_ from that part,” Tucker continues, “which is totally welcome by the way...you’ve been pretty good at the whole ‘friend’ thing so far. So…” He coughs. “You know. It was...kinda messed up when I said you weren’t.”

Now it’s Wash’s turn to be surprised. “Tucker… You don’t need to apologize for that.”

“I’m just saying.” Tucker meets his eyes tentatively. “It’s cool. _We’re_ cool.”

There are a lot of ‘but’s and ‘are you sure’s that Wash quickly swallows down. He hasn’t known Tucker to say things were cool when they weren’t.

“Cool,” he makes himself repeat. He manages a smile when Tucker grins at him again.

“Oh my _God_ , are you _still_ talking?” Without further notice, a Church-colored beam of light pops up between them. “How long is this going to take? Save the marriage counseling for Armonia, Jesus.”

Washington is momentarily struck speechless by the fact that they were eavesdropped on _again_. Tucker, for his part, grunts with the effort to lean forward and glare at Church. “See, this? Is why you’re the worst wingman ever.”

“Yeah, I’m all torn up about it.” Church turns to Wash. “We gonna get moving or what?”

Wash looks to Tucker for confirmation, but Tucker appears too conflicted to respond. “Stay here,” he decides for him. “We’ll continue our discussion once we’re home.”

After a long moment’s thought, Tucker nods. “Just so you know,” he says, however, “if you almost die again, I’m gonna punch you in the face.”

Wash shoots him a wry grin. “Same to you.”

The two of them opt to ignore the gagging noise Church makes.

***

The thing about the war room was, it was never a good time to go in. If Doyle and Kimball were in there, they were either in the middle of arguing or simmering in the aftermath. If one caught either of them alone, they would launch into a rant about the other that could occupy upwards of twenty minutes if left unchecked. More than anything, just the mere thought of the war room gave Washington stress headaches, which very much explained why he felt his head split in two the moment he reached the door and heard them screaming at each other.

All the momentum he had built up suddenly took a nosedive as the argument inside escalated. He couldn’t just storm in there while they were both pissed off. What would this even accomplish? He needed to regroup, strategize, and return with a better gameplan in mind.

Inside the war room, Doyle’s voice rose so many octaves that it cracked on every single syllable. Washington sighed. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and went in.

The Chorus army generals were practically snarling at each other when Washington entered. Doyle was especially wound up, gesticulating so hard it looked like he was trying to karate chop the air around him. Wash ducked under one such chop, at which point the generals’ faces dropped.

It didn’t take long for Kimball to recover her glare. “Get out,” she said.

“I know you’re busy.” Washington set his helmet on the war table. “So I won’t take long.”

When it became apparent that Wash wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, Kimball gestured for him to go on. “Well?”

Wash took a glance at Doyle, whose face was similarly pinched. “I’m here to ask you to reschedule the tournament,” he said.

Kimball’s face fell yet again. “You…” Her eyebrows came together in a tight ‘v,’ more confused than angry. “We’ve already discussed this, Wash. Even if we _did_ have the time or resources for recreational activities, we’re not--”

“I’m aware that a game of grifball in this political climate could have the potential to split our army apart even further,” he interrupted. “But I think that could change if you two helped keep the peace.”

Doyle made a bitterly amused sound. “So _now_ you think it a good idea to involve us.”

“Yes. I do. In fact, I think it’s essential that we all spend some time on morale before things get out of hand. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but both factions in this army have been tearing into each other like _kindergarteners_. Kimball, your men tried to vandalize half the base. And Doyle, your men nearly jeopardized a mission just to get one over on the New Republic.”

Judging by the tightly drawn, guilty looks on their faces, this was not news to either of them. Wash stared. “You knew,” he said, disbelieving.

Doyle sighed. “I can assure you the soldier responsible was reprimanded _quite_ harshly--”

“With a very stern slap on the wrist, I’m sure,” Wash bit out. The look Doyle gave him was equal parts ashamed and resentful. “You can’t keep letting this slide. Like it or not, when these people look at you, they see it’s okay to act terrible to each other.” He gesticulated at Kimball. “I mean, for God’s sake, the least you could do is not talk about how useless it is to try to make amends.”

Kimball scoffed. “When did I _ever_ say that?”

“‘When’? Just last night you were going off on Tucker about lost goodbyes and time wasted.”

Doyle hummed. “Remarkable memory.”

“I can say whatever I want about whomever I want in the privacy of my own office, thank you very much,” said Kimball, ignoring Doyle.

“What does that matter when everyone in Armonia heard you say it?” At Kimball’s baffled look, Washington backtracked. “Wait… You...haven’t seen the broadcast?”

“What broadcast?”

The clip wasn’t hard to find; his inbox had been spammed with it ever since the night before. Both generals watched in total silence, though whereas Doyle grew increasingly uncomfortable, Kimball grew increasingly quiet.

_“Did you think that letting these people beat each other up a couple of nights a week would have made up for all the lives that were lost? All that time wasted? The goodbyes we never got to have? You think that all just goes away with a touchdown or some lousy bragging rights?”_

“Stop the clip,” Kimball said, which Wash was more than glad to do considering the rest of the content. The room filled up with silence for a beat. “And that was broadcasted live to the entire base?” Washington nodded.

“Well.” Doyle cleared his throat. “Wasn’t exactly our finest moment, now, was it?”

“What I said still stands,” Kimball said immediately, throwing Doyle a challenging look. “Our history isn’t going anywhere.”

Doyle drew in a deep breath through his nose. “Surely, after all we’ve done for your troops--allowing them into our home, sharing our supplies, fighting alongside them in spite of their less than savory manners--you could at least _try_ to overlook some of our, ah...past blunders, and--”

Kimball laughed, low and bitter. “Less than savory manners? That’s rich, coming from you, you _entitled prick_!”

“Oh, ‘entitled,’ am I? Sounds to me like the pot’s calling the kettle black!”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean, _General_?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what it means! It means...well, it means that _you_ act entitled, as well!”

“I wasn’t asking for a definition, you condescending ass!”

“Hey, _hey_!” Washington shouted over Doyle’s stuttered rebuttal. Wash hardly even flinched at the dual glares he received for it. “This is exactly what Tucker was talking about. You can’t even put aside your differences for five minutes! How the hell do you get anything done if you can’t focus on the task at hand?”

“What do you want from us, Wash?” Kimball said, exasperated. “It wasn’t _our_ decision to have that conversation leaked.”

“But it did. And it’s out there. And now it’s the first thing on everyone’s minds.” Washington picked up his helmet. “Don’t let them think this alliance is hopeless. Show them that they can do this.”

Kimball’s lips tightened. Doyle wrung his hands. Neither of them spoke.

When the silence had dragged on long enough, Wash headed for the door. “You know…” He paused in the doorway. “I do think our men are capable of good sportsmanship. They just need a bit of guidance.”

Doyle picked his head up at that. Kimball, however, just frowned.

***

For the fifth time in the past ten minutes, Wash sees a blur of green in his peripheral vision and has to pause in the middle of meddling with the base’s defense systems to say, “What is it now, Delta?”

“I would just like to report that there are currently three enemies present within a ten meter radius of this room.”

“Really.”

“More specifically it is a nine point nine nine nine nine five radius, but--”

“Delta.”

“Yes, Agent Washington?”

“I know you’re bored. Just give me five more minutes.”

Delta zaps in front of him, obscuring his view of the screen. “I am not ‘bored,’” he protests. “You assigned me the task of lookout, and that is what I’m doing: Looking. Out.”

Wash swats vainly at his hologram. “Lookout just means letting me know when someone’s coming this way, not updating me on the entire base’s position at all times.”

“I see.” Delta drifts off to the side, head bowed over the controls. “Perhaps a more effective use of my time would be to hack into the systems myself.”

“No. You’re supposed to conserve your energy. You had a long night.”

“True. However.” A chart appears in front of Washington’s visor, again blocking the screens from view. “Given our differences in skill and time management, it would take me half the time it takes you to do a thorough and complete shutdown of the system.” The chart evaporates. “In other words, if it were up to me, this task would have been completed approximately five minutes ago.”

Washington rolls his eyes. “I’m starting to see the resemblance between you and Church,” he mutters. “Look, if I need any help, I’ll let you know.”

“Acknowledged,” Delta says before finally leaving Wash’s line of sight. It sounds casual enough, but Wash is starting to think that Delta’s ‘casual’ is more along the lines of passive aggressive.

York would have been a lot better at unlocking this stupid thing, is a thought that Washington can’t help but have. Normally, Wash would just knock out a random guard and use their fingerprints to unlock the supply vault, but he can’t isolate any of them without looking suspicious and there is no way his knee will let him take on more than one enemy at a time. So lockpicking it is. He just wishes Delta would stop updating him on how many men are nearby, how likely it is that the unconscious pirate will wake up within the next fifteen minutes, how he has detected a friendly lifeform within the base that isn’t him or Tucker, how--wait.

Washington whips around. “What did you just say?”

“Hey, Jonés!” Delta vanishes just in time for the pirate passing by to miss him. “Quit fucking around and get out here. We got a visitor.”

It isn’t much of a surprise to see Palomo getting dragged in by the shoulder, though that doesn’t make it a pleasant sight by any means. Washington reels in a cringe when Palomo is shoved forward and stumbles, clearly disoriented and afraid. The pirate who caught him saunters forward with an air of importance. Purple accents set him apart from the nameless grunts, the shape of his helmet indicates that he’s a reconnaissance specialist, and the noise his feet make as he comes inside have a distinct hollow sound. He handles Palomo much more roughly than necessary, with the kind of anger that looks difficult to manage. An elite, experienced mercenary, though he clearly lacks Felix and Locus’s cool calculation.

“Found him rooting around in the cliffs on my way down,” purple guy explains. He crosses his arms. “So? Who dropped the ball on this one?”

Nobody says anything. One guy coughs.

“Alright. I’ll just hold all of you equally accountable, then.”

“We’ve been doing fine, Siris,” says the pirate to Wash’s left. “Just last week we had three attempts on our base and none of them even came close. Hell, just today we nabbed two assholes trying to sneak in.”

“Both alive?”

“For now.” Wash doesn’t miss the way Palomo’s shoulders go stiff at that. “Jonés over here can tell you more about it. He and Vav were the ones on duty when it happened.”

Siris’s eyes are on Wash now. “What happened to Vav?”

“Dead,” he replies frankly. “Sniper got him right in the chest. And then some.”

“And then some?” Siris hums. “Odd. And you’re sure you took out that sniper?”

“Positive.” Palomo lifts his head up at that, but doesn’t say anything.

Siris brushes past Washington with enough force to knock him back when their shoulders collide. “We’ll see about that. One of you come with me and unlock the cell doors for me. I think it’s time to have a little chat with our guests.”

“Wait,” Wash says hastily enough to warrant a wary look from Siris. He swallows. “That is… Felix said to keep them alive until he can interrogate them himself. So I don’t think--”

A soft grunt cuts him off. “I don’t take orders from Felix,” says Siris. He nods at the pirates standing idly by. “Let’s get a move on.”

One of the pirates takes out the keys and tosses it to the other. “You heard him.” The other pirate throws up two middle fingers as he trails behind an impatient Siris.

As Washington tears his eyes away from Siris’s retreating back, a soft buzz hums across his skin. His armor glitches between yellow and white accents, flickering about three times before settling back on white. He checks over his shoulder to see if Siris noticed, only to witness him enter the prison cell at the other end of the hall.

“C’mon, let’s go,” the remaining pirate grumbles, miraculously too distracted by Palomo to notice the malfunction.

Washington steadies the pirate with a companionable nudge. “Let me handle that.”

The pirate looks between the two of them for a moment. He sighs. “Suit yourself. I’m gonna go take a nap.”

“Take it easy,” Wash says, which for whatever reason gives the pirate pause. The silence doesn’t hang for long, but it leaves Washington unsettled all the same.

Meanwhile, Palomo starts to back away. “Listen, I may not look it, but I’ve got a can of whoop-ass just waiting to be sprung.”

“Palo--”

“Okay, you asked for it! Whoop-pow!” Wash waits. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Palomo,” he tries again. “It’s me.”

“Me who? Wait.” Palomo gasps. “Oh my God. You’re me from the future.” Another gasp. “Tell me everything! Well, maybe not _everything_. Just the good stuff. Or maybe not. I still kinda want the element of surprise.”

“Oh, for the love of… Epsilon?” The voice filter switches off. “Thanks.”

Another, more dramatic gasp. “Agent Washington!”

Wash shushes him. “I’m undercover!” he admonishes. Palomo mimes a zipping motion. “What happened to you? Where’s Donut?”

“I got ambushed!” Palomo whispers. “Me and Donut were trying to establish a perimeter when this guy came outta nowhere and attacked me. I don’t know where Donut is, but I think I remember seeing him follow us down here. Or maybe that was just a really big pink rock.”

“Well, I haven’t heard anything on my end, so I doubt he’s been captured…”

“What about Captain Tucker? Is he alright?”

“He’s getting by,” Wash decides to say. “Though I’m a little worried about what that Siris guy has in store for him.”

“Yeah, me too… What are we going to do?”

“For now, let’s just get back to the control room. We can keep an eye on him through the security cams.”

“Gotcha.”

There’s a space pirate standing puzzled at the control panel once they arrive, muttering to himself as his eyes flick between the panel and the security feeds. His attention remains in that area as Washington creeps up behind him, quietly plucking a knife from his belt. His limp isn’t doing him any favors, but if he’s patient, he can just--

Suddenly, there is an obnoxiously loud gasp from Palomo. The pirate swings his arm out as he turns around, forcing Washington to back out of his space and bite down _hard_ on a cry of pain when his knee protests. For a brief, baffling moment, the two of them just stare at each other, bewildered. It takes a while for Wash to realize that his armor has gone invisible. And then an extra two seconds to realize that the camo didn’t conceal his knife.

The pirate stumbles back against the controls. “G-g-ghost!” he stutters out. Wash takes advantage of his shock to stab him in the shoulder and knock him out.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Church says over Wash’s shoulder. “Boo, motherfucker.”

Palomo enters with a celebratory woop. “This mission! Is so! Awesome!” he cheers. “The guys back home are gonna be so jealous!”

“Jealous of a mission where all of us nearly died on multiple occasions?” Washington pockets his knife. “I suppose I could see that, given that Carolina’s in charge.”

Church scoffs. “Oh, please. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

***

“Ahh! My eye! My _eye_!”

“For the last time, it’s not a real injury if you can still see out of it! Now wipe that blood off your face and _get off your ass_!”

***

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Washington sweeps the unconscious pirate off the control panel and looks at Palomo. “By the way, what the hell were you reacting to back there?”

“Uh… Oh, yeah!” Palomo points at the security feed. On the prison cam, Siris interrogates a disoriented pirate locked in one of the cells. A grifball lies idle at his knees.

“Shit,” Wash mutters.

Church materializes next to Wash. “Soo, we’re fucked,” he says unhelpfully.

“Wait, why? What are we lookin’ at?” A moment. “ _Ohh.._. Yeah, I was actually talking about that giant dog on that screen over there. I’m super allergic. But, uh...that other thing looks pretty bad, too.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m taking over.” Church disappears into the control panel.

“Epsilon, get out of there!”

“Can’t hear you, bitch. I’m too busy downloading the mainframe.”

“That is not a thing!”

“Yeah, well, guess what?” Something down the hall makes an ominous noise before Church reappears. “Five seconds flat. Who the man?”

Wash narrows his eyes at him. “Delta said it would’ve taken you half the time I did it.”

“Oh, please. He was being generous.” All of a sudden, the room is bathed in a bright red light that blinks on and off as an alarm blares in their ears. “Alright. Gonna go ahead and take the blame on that one.” His hologram glitches. “Also, this might not be the best time to mention it, but I think I’m gonna black o--”

And with that, he’s gone. Wash’s armor fades back to black and yellow. “That motherfuck--!”

The sounds of footsteps rushing past the room startle Wash into action. He looks between Palomo and the passed out pirate. “Palomo, grab that guy’s armor and head to the supply vault. Take as much as you can carry out to the garage out back, get a Warthog, and wait for me and Tucker out in the cliffs. If you find Donut, take him with you.”

“Whoa, whoa! Hold the phone! You want _me_ to do that? All by myself?”

“One of us needs to grab Tucker before we get out of here,” Wash explains as he rips the pirate’s helmet off and shoves it at Palomo.

Palomo looks down at the helmet and lets out a nervous laugh. “Hoookay, listen, I didn’t sign up to do the important stuff. I work way better when people expect nothing from me. Nothing is a pretty important skill of mine. I’ve been honing it for years! I-I don’t--”

“Palomo.” Washington claps a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re scared. I know that this seems like the kind of big, important thing a low-ranking officer like you can’t possibly do. And I know that, even among your friends, you are pretty much considered the least helpful of the bunch.”

“Yep, all those things sound like me.”

“But you don’t _have_ to be the big, legendary hero to do great things.” Wash squeezes his shoulder. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

It’s not until the words are out there that Wash realizes they’re not just for Palomo. It’s what he should have said to Knott, and the captain who wanted to train with him, and the barrel roll guy, and even the magician in the bathroom. It’s what he should say to them, when he gets the chance.

After a long moment, Palomo sniffs and nods. “Okay.”

***

“You’re making this much, much more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s acting like a fuckin’ lunatic!”

“Just tell me where he is, and I’ll let you go.”

“I already told you, there _is_ no undercover agent. You’re wasting your time!”

“Tucker!”

Tucker raises his head at the sound of Wash’s arrival, which gives Siris just enough time to knock his sword away and dive for the gun lying a few feet away. He points it at Wash, who mirrors him.

Tucker throws his head back and groans. “Are you fucking serious? What did I say, Wash?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Wash retorts, his eyes trained on Siris.

“I was winning before you showed up, asshole!”

“Tucker, you shouldn’t even be fighting in your condition.”

“Yeah, well, it was either that or a bullet through the head. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?”

“Why didn’t you just--?”

A bullet zips past Wash’s head and sinks into the door behind him. The room falls silent.

“So you’re the intruder,” Siris observes. “Wash, right? AKA Agent Washington, the Freelancer Locus won’t shut up about.”

“Yeah. Hi,” Wash says coolly.

Siris chuckles. “You came all the way down here, to a dead end, just to rescue your friend.” He turns his gun on Tucker. “And you’re not much better, are you? Both of you just love playing the hero, thinking you can save everyone and yourselves, too.”

Tucker shrugs his good shoulder. “It’s been working out for us pretty well so far.”

“It works to a point,” Siris says sharply, advancing on Tucker. Washington cocks his gun warningly. “It works until your good intentions aren’t good enough, anymore. Until the powers that be decide that _your_ ‘good’ isn’t the kind of good they want. Until the sacrifices you make, for the people you try to protect, backfire.”

Siris turns his gun on Wash again. “That’s when you realize…the world doesn’t give a crap about morals, or justice, or ‘the right thing.’ The only way to survive is to look out for yourself.”

Wash considers it. Then he exchanges a look with Tucker. “And they call me melodramatic.”

The next bullet Siris fires misses by a mile as Tucker stabs him in the stomach.

“Jesus, he’s even worse than Felix,” Tucker says as Siris lets out one final, garbled noise and collapses. “Don’t get me wrong, Felix is the most annoying douche on the planet, but this dude is just boring as fuck.”

Tucker places his sword back on his belt and dusts himself off. In the meantime, Wash watches as Siris gradually becomes stiller and stiller, slightly more perturbed than he had originally let on. He can’t help but think that that could’ve been him. Back at Sidewinder nearly a year ago, it actually _was_.

“Wash?” Tucker says cautiously, and he looks at him. Even amidst the alarms and the chaos and the strange man bleeding out in front of them, there’s something about how Tucker looks in this light—battered, beaten, but not broken—that is incredibly, undeniably calming. The sight of it brings Wash back to himself.

“I’m fine,” Wash says after a moment. He means it more than he sounds. “What about you? Are you alright?”

“Eh. I’ve been better.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

Tucker gives him a _look_ that makes him lean down before he can think better of it. Tucker then stumbles back and yells, “Whoa, what the fuck!”

It takes a moment. “Oh, right. Helmet.”

“Dude, you almost headbutted me.”

“I was trying to kiss you.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

For a while, Wash isn’t sure if he should try again or just move on. Fortunately, the decision is made for him when the door slides open and the two of them instantly draw their weapons. The incoming pirate yelps.

“Chrysanthemum! _Chrysanthemum_!” he squeaks out.

“Wh...” Wash puts his gun down. “Donut?”

“Whew! I was worried I wasn’t gonna get to use my word. Can’t let you guys have _all_ the fun.”

“Hey guys!” Palomo pipes up from behind him. “We got the stuff!”

Washington brightens. “That’s great. How much did you get?”

“Oh, not much, not much...just _everything in the entire vault_. Up top, D!” Palomo high fives Donut.

Tucker and Wash exchange an incredulous look. “The _entire_ vault? How did you guys pull it off?” asks the latter.

Donut starts digging around his belt. “Here, let me whip it out for you!”

“Please don’t,” says Tucker. Donut pulls out a future cube. “Oh thank God.”

Washington frowns. “Wait, you’ve had these on you? Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve used them to escape this place ages ago!”

Donut looks at Palomo, who laughs nervously. “Uhh… Nobody asked?”

“Palomo?”

“Yes, Captain Tucker?”

“You are the worst.”

“And yet I still saved the day! Isn’t that right, Agent Washington?”

“That’s, uh…” Wash coughs. “Yeah. Good job, buddy.”

Tucker stares. “What.”

Washington ignores him. “Let’s head back to Armonia, shall we? Donut, if you would do the honors…”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Donut wags his cube around. “Isn’t anybody gonna ask me how I got in?”

“How did you get in, Donut?” Tucker asks dryly.

“Well, funny story! So I was poking around the back-door, and--!”

“Hey!” interrupts a voice from down the hall. “The prisoner’s escaping!”

Washington rips the cube from Donut’s hand. “No time. We gotta leave, _now_.”

It occurs to Wash that this might be a bad idea about a millisecond after the cube hits the ground, but by then their surroundings are warping and changing around them and Wash’s injuries are worsened twofold by the queasy, uncanny feeling of being turned inside out. Once they’re back on solid, real land, it takes all his energy not to collapse right then and there.

“Huh? Oh, hey! Thank God you guys are back. This place has been a nightmare since you left. Carolina’s been wrecking havoc in the training room, Sarge has been reprogramming the grifballs to be _actual_ bombs, and don’t even get me started on what Grif has done to my color-coded binders… Uh, guys? Hey! What the hell are you doing? You can’t throw up in here! This is the armory! Oh, for…! Ugh, fine. I’ll go get the bucket.”

***

Dr. Grey doesn’t allow visitors for a few days, if only because the hospital is stuffed to the brim with casualties from what has become known as ‘C-Day.’ Once visiting hours are open, however, Tucker and Washington get no shortage of them.

Caboose shows up with a card that looks regifted; the words ‘Caboose, Happy Birthday. We didn’t get you anything. From, Church & Tucker’ have been crossed out and replaced with ‘Dear Wash (nd Tucker I guess), Good job at not dieing!! Feel better. From, Cabose.’ Carolina trades increasingly graphic war stories with Wash while Church provides commentary. Sarge drops by to try to sell them on the benefits of a robot arm, which only gets worse when Dr. Grey jumps in and doesn’t stop until Tucker yells at them to get out. Grif spends the better part of an hour watching reruns and eating chips at Tucker’s bedside. Simmons visits just to drag Grif back to the armory, but he does add a neatly written ‘get well soon’ card to the collection at their bedside.

Kimball and Doyle bring a lovely bouquet of flowers. The lieutenants, plus Palomo, bring chocolates. Even some of the feds stop by bearing gifts and apologies for Tucker, which Tucker accepts with a begrudging ‘yeah, whatever, it’s cool.’ The endless stream of visitors manages to keep them occupied when they aren’t fast asleep, which leaves them very little time to themselves.

It’s not until late in the evening, when the floor is quiet, the lights are dark, and both of them are lying awake, that Wash decides on something to say.

“I meant it when I said you don’t need my help,” he says to the ceiling. “We can keep doing lessons if you want, but...you don’t need special training to be a decent soldier. I just wanted you to know that.”

He can feel the moment Tucker’s eyes find him in the dark. “I think I’m good,” Tucker says in a way that’s not quite casual.

Wash turns his head to look at Tucker. He’s lying on his good side, eyes on Wash, but it’s hard to read his face. “You sure?”

“Yeah… I mean, all we really do when we’re alone together is pretend we don’t wanna make out, so.”

“True,” Wash admits. His eyes strain to track the way Tucker’s tongue moves over his lower lip. He swallows. “Are we still doing that now?”

Tucker snorts. “The whole army knows we wanna bang. What’s the point in acting like we don’t?”

“Fair enough. So now what?”

“Uh… I dunno. What else is there?”

Wash lifts a shoulder. “Just because we want something doesn’t mean we can have it.”

The eyeroll is more heard than seen. “Don’t even think about pulling that ‘I’m not worthy’ bullshit on me.”

Washington pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I’m just trying to be respectful. I don’t want to rush into anything if you’re not ready for it.”

“Okay, one”--Tucker shifts into a sitting position-- “I’m not a fucking virgin. Two: I’m literally sitting here telling you I wanna fuck you. Three: Even if I do end up hating it, trust me, I’ll let you know. You’re not rushing me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it…” Tucker trails off as Wash rises from his bed and hobbles the short distance over to Tucker’s. He sits down, his hand landing blindly on a spot that feels close to Tucker’s hip, and settles in. The tip of Tucker’s nose is less than a hairpin away from Wash’s. “Yeah,” he repeats lamely.

Washington shifts just slightly, but it’s enough to make their noses touch. He feels Tucker wrinkle his own in response. “You don’t sound too sure,” Wash says carefully.

At that, Tucker’s face sours. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, this could change a lot.”

“Dude.” Tucker leans forward until their foreheads meet. It’s a bit painful, since Tucker did it too forcefully and had to follow Wash when he leaned out, but they remain pressed together regardless. They’re close enough that Wash can feel Tucker’s breath on his face, and it reeks of god-awful hospital food. Then again, Wash’s is probably not much better.

“Are _you_ sure about this?” says Tucker, quietly.

Wash swallows. “Of course,” he says, wincing at the crack in his voice.

Tucker smirks, but miraculously doesn’t comment on it. “So let’s do it.”

“Yeah…” Washington takes a deep breath, fingers curling in Tucker’s sheets. “Yeah. Alright.”

Neither of them say anything, nor do they dare to make the first move.

Washington clears his throat. “So.”

Tucker licks his lips. Wash swears he can actually _feel_ it. “Wow. This was way easier when we were pissed at each other.”

It’s just a passing remark, but Wash still wonders if there’s some truth to it. Maybe the heat of the moment had been the only thing keeping this all together.

“Hey, Wash.”

“Mhm?”

“I, uh… I used your toothbrush to clean the toilets.”

“What…?”

“And the other day, I sold your socks to the reds. Again.”

“You _what_?”

“And I let Caboose crash the tank into the communication tower. And… Hey, wait, where are you going?” Tucker says quickly when Wash starts to pull away.

Washington sighs. “This isn’t working. Let’s just forget it.”

Tucker’s good arm remains fastened around Wash’s waist. “Come on, Wash. I’m trying.”

“No offense, but I really don’t want to have anything to do with this angry sex fantasy of yours.”

“It’s not a fantasy, jackass, I was just…ugh. Lemme try again.”

Again, Tucker tugs him in close. For a split second, Wash thinks Tucker might actually close the gap between them, but then _something_ clicks and his eyes grow small and terrified and he retreats instantly. He presses himself back against the pillows like he’s been cornered.

“Uhm,” says Wash.

“Just give me a sec,” replies Tucker, strained.

He does. Tucker remains just as motionless and silent as before. “Are...you okay?” Wash asks eventually.

“Yeah. I just.” Tucker exhales. He can’t even look at him. His voice is small when he speaks. “Okay... Fuck. I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

Tucker sucks in a deep breath. His eyes don’t quite meet Wash’s. “I don’t...I don’t _do_ romantic stuff. Like, dating and shit."

The admission itself isn’t all that shocking, but it comes so completely out of left field that Wash starts to panic. Did he say something to make Tucker think he _expected_ all that? “I’m aware,” he says neutrally.

Tucker continues to fidget, however. “I mean, I’ve never been on dates, or been anyone’s boyfriend, or done any of that lovey dovey shit like candlelit dinners or whatever. And none of that ever interested me, because who wants to get married to some chick they hate?”

“I think the ideal situation is that you _don’t_ hate them, but go on.”

“Well…” Tucker sifts a hand through his hair, thinking. “The thing is, lately I’ve been doing a lot of shit I never thought I’d do. I thought I’d hate being a dad, but Junior turned out to be fucking awesome. And I never thought I’d be in a position where I had to lead someone, but now I am, and it’s not that great, but I’m not dead, either. So that’s pretty good. And…” He stops abruptly, as if choking on his next thought. Wash almost expects him to completely backtrack and dismiss it all as nonsensical bullshit, but he doesn’t. He just forces the words out there slowly. “I thought that sex with feelings wasn’t for me, because I’ve never had feelings before, but…”

Finally, with a tremendous amount of effort, Tucker looks at Wash. “I don’t think I can have sex with you without feeling something.”

Again, Washington waits for Tucker to backtrack, or laugh it away with some contrived innuendo. Instead, he just stares at him with an intensity Wash has never seen before. He honestly doesn’t think Tucker has ever been this serious in his life.

“Oh,” is all he can manage in response to that.

“Like, I can’t even _think_ about _kissing_ you without feeling all gooey and shit,” Tucker rambles on frantically. “I just keep thinking about dumb stuff like your freckles and your eyes and that stupid fucking dimple you get right there when you laugh.”

“Hey.” Wash swats Tucker’s finger away self-consciously. He can’t think of much else to say; he’s using all his brain power to digest the fact that Tucker _feels_ things for _him_ , new and exciting things he has never felt before, and oh, dear Lord, is Wash really his _first_?

It occurs to him that Tucker hasn’t been saying anything for a while, just studying him with that sad, frustrated look. “I just...” Finally, his eyes fall to his lap. He sighs. “I think I want to date you. But I also don’t, because I’d be the worst fucking boyfriend ever.”

Wash’s brain is very much occupied, so in the meantime, he snorts and answers on autopilot. “Yeah, well. An ex-Freelancer with severe trust issues, melodramatic tendencies, a hot temper, and occasional insomnia couldn’t be much better.”

Tucker snorts back humorlessly. “We’d be terrible together,” he says like he truly means it.

There’s an immediate, unthinking temptation to reassure him, but Tucker could and would easily look through something as insincere as that. So Washington mulls it over.

“Yeah,” he thinks aloud. “We would be pretty bad. We’re both terrible at communication. We’re both stubborn. We both care too much, but we’re also terrified of showing it. I could easily see us fighting over something insignificant and not apologizing to each other for days.”

Another cheerless laugh. “Pretty much,” Tucker says to his hands in his lap.

“ _But_ …” He waits until Tucker begrudgingly raises his eyes to look at him directly. “I trust and believe in you more than anyone I know. And there are times that, when I’m with you, everything feels just a little bit easier. I care about you so deeply that it worries me--sometimes scares me, a little. And...in general, I feel an undeniable attraction to you. But you knew that part.”

Washington cups the back of Tucker’s neck and smirks when Tucker murmurs something about how cheesy that is. “My point is...we might end up being terrible together,” he says, squeezing. “But I’m okay with that if you are.”

A desperate, incredulously hopeful laugh bubbles up from Tucker’s chest. “Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “Dude. You got it bad.”

“I know. It’s embarrassing.”

Tucker tries and fails to suppress a grin. “Yeah... Yeah, okay. Sure. Whatever. Fuck it, why not?”

They wrap their arms around each other and just hold each other for a while, tentative but sweet. Wash breathes in the stale hospital scent on his neck and smiles into the hint of that cool ranch smell from the bag of chips that Grif had smuggled in for him.

“Do I have to say something back?” Tucker mutters into the side of Wash’s head. Wash shrugs. “Okay. Well. Ditto.” Wash stifles a laugh against his shoulder.

Eventually, Tucker pries him off, though his hands remain firm on Wash’s shoulders. “We are gonna be the worst couple ever,” he proclaims.

“Of all time,” Wash agrees, and finally, _finally_ , Tucker kisses him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

*** 

“So we have discussed it,” says Lieutenant Knott. “And we think that maybe we, as soldiers, are not quite prepared for the rigorous training that our Freelancers have to offer. We see now that it was foolish of us to believe otherwise. We apologize for any resentment or pressure you must have felt from us when we insisted we were. We understand that you were just trying to protect us, and humbly request that you never, ever, _ever_ put us through any such similar training. Ever. Please.”

Washington barely even registers the fact that Knott said anything. He’s too distracted by the tire marks, scorch marks, paint, blood, _hair_ , _teeth_ , scratch marks, and the mysterious patches of floor that are just. _Gone_.

“What the hell happened?” he breathes out.

“Please,” Knott simply repeats. “ _Never again.”_


End file.
